


The Most Dangerous of Liaisons

by LostLeaf



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: A Different Take on Roth, Anal Sex (No Heavy Detail), Assassin's Creed Syndicate Game Spoilers!!, Betrayal, Blood Mentioned/Described, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, I'm so bad at smut - I'm so very sorry! I'm trying to improve!, I'm so sorry Lewis!, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Piano Sex (Kinda), Sibling Arguing, This Is A Messed Up Love Story, Unrequited Love, Violent Acts Described
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2018-06-05 23:17:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 47,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6727432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostLeaf/pseuds/LostLeaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><br/>
It was the perfect partnership. The Cunning Criminal Mastermind and the Deadly Master Assassin. </p><p>Jacob loved every moment of it. He loved the chaos they were causing together. He loved the speed at which they were making progress and the rush it gave him—but more than anything else, he found himself loving the seemingly endless praise and attention Roth poured onto him at every opportunity.</p><p> There was something dizzyingly magnetic about Maxwell Roth.<br/>
</p><p>-------------------------------------------------------------------</p><p>
<strong>**</strong>My first ever fanfic!<strong>**</strong> This is my take on what might have happened if things had developed between Jacob and Roth. (In other words, this is a messed up love story!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beautiful Friendship

**Author's Note:**

> Soo, this is my very first attempt at writing anything - ever! I'm brand new at this and super nervous to be posting on here, but here goes! 
> 
> **Please note that I sometimes use dialog and events from or inspired by ACS but not in the same context/order, therefore this fic might contain spoilers if you've not yet played the game**
> 
> Thank you for reading!

“Would you be so kind as to get up some steam?” Jacob asked, eyebrow arched as he towered over the driver he’d just kidnapped. The terrified man had no choice but to oblige and the train began to slowly edge out of the now deserted station.

He was making good time. Within half an hour, Jacob had single-handedly managed to destroy Crawford Starrick’s massive shipment of explosives stored at St. Pancras station, as well as taking out all of his Templar guards without detection. Now all that was left to do was to steal the train and get it back to Roth who was waiting for him further down the line.

“Ah, splendid, Jacob!” Roth cooed and rocked back on his heels as the train pulled up.

Jacob bounced down to greet him on the small platform below, grinning from the praise, enthralled by the reaction he was getting from the older man. Maxwell Roth—the infamous Blighter leader himself.

“Good boy! Starrick will be on his knees in no time!” Roth's smile was sharp, and his eyes flashed with a confusing mix of menace and admiration as he leant over and patted Jacob’s arm. “Any trouble, my dear?” He asked, walking towards the train to take Jacob’s place with the driver at the engine.

“Course not! Starrick’s merchandise is no more.” Jacob called after him, watching Roth spring effortlessly onto the train, somehow unable to take his eyes off him. Fascinated by the way the older man spoke, the way he addressed him, the way he carried himself.  “I thought you’d at least give me a challenge!” He joked, folding his arms. It came out more arrogantly than he’d meant it to, but Jacob couldn’t seem to help it—he was loving the banter with Roth, perhaps a little more than he wanted to admit.

“Ha-haa! Marvellous!” Roth clapped his hands together, also enjoying the lively exchange with his rather handsome new friend. “Then I bow down to your obvious talents, Mr Frye.” He bent forward and offered a mock-bow towards Jacob, which came off as more of a curtsey from where the younger man was standing.

Jacob smirked and rubbed the back of his neck, not knowing where to look and equally unsure of how to feel about all the flattery. Maxwell Roth was certainly a character—strange and intriguing, yet somehow quite absorbing—and he certainly wasn’t backwards at coming forwards.

“This puts us at a great advantage, my dear friend.” Roth continued, turning to the side to whistle. A group of nearby Blighters obediently joined him at the front of the train, guns unholstered and knives unsheathed, ready to guard their boss for the short journey ahead. Roth took out his own gun and mumbled something intimidating to the still petrified driver who sprang into action and released the breaks, and with screech of steel on steel, the train started to slowly roll forward.

Satisfied, Roth spun back around to face Jacob on the platform below, eyes lighting up again at the sight of him. The elusive Master Assassin—standing there, legs apart, head cocked, and those large dreamy eyes fixed on him. Magnificent. _Breathtaking._ Roth quivered with excitement. He gripped the handrail and leant over the side to speak over the deafening noise of the steam, pouring from the train as it slowly gathered pace.

“Apologies, I must run. But I’m indebted to you and your help, Jacob.” 

Jacob half-smiled back and shrugged, cheeks heating as he bit down on his lip to stop the smile from developing further and giving away just how much he was adoring the praise and attention from the older man.

“Do come by the Alhambra later, my dear. We’ve much to celebrate!” Roth flashed a final mischievous grin Jacob's way, taking one last, lingering look, then leant back into the train and resumed jabbing the driver in the back of the head with his gun.

And there Jacob stood, watching him from the small deck at the side of the tracks as the train disappeared south and into the distance. His new partner in crime. The man who seemed to be offering him so much, but who was asking for so little in return.

Maxwell Roth. 

This was more like it. Jacob had never felt so alive, so energised—his heart still pounding in his chest, his senses flying high from the adrenaline coursing through his blood stream. Things with Evie were moving too slowly these days, and to top everything off, it seemed that every single thing he said or did only seemed to annoy his sibling. Evie had never felt that Jacob’s 'forceful', 'direct' and 'messy' approaches were the right way to go about things, instead preferring her slower, more precise, measured methods. 

Quite Frankly, Jacob was bored. He craved action. He hated waiting.

In a recent frustrated exchange with his sister, the twins had agreed that in order to reduce the tension between them, Jacob should focus on eliminating the Templar gang leaders around London—using his Rooks to liberate areas where they had a stronghold, while Evie would continue researching and pursing the Shroud, one of the Pieces of Eden - A First Civilization artifact hidden somewhere deep within the city that both the Assassins and Templars were fighting one another for control of.

That was music to Jacob’s ears. That suited him just fine.

It was shortly after he and Evie went their separate ways, that Jacob had secretly accepted Maxwell Roth’s curious invitation to work together to take down Templar leader Crawford Starrick, and in doing so, deeply injure the Templar influence in London and beyond. This was his chance to prove to Evie that his way could work. That he _was_ capable.

Roth, Jacob decided, was the perfect opportunity for a shortcut — straight to Starrick.

But it was a dangerous invitation to take. Jacob was well aware that Roth was not only a Templar himself, but also the leader of the Blighters—the very same Blighters that he and his Rooks had been brutally fighting for the last few weeks. And yet, a deal with Roth was made, bound by their mutual hatred of Starrick and, to Jacob’s delight, they had already managed to sabotage a great many of the Grand Master’s recent plans in a relatively short amount of time, leaving a trail of mayhem and destruction in their wake.

They appeared to be the perfect partnership. The Cunning Criminal Mastermind and the Deadly Master Assassin. Roth would provide the inside information and set everything up, and Jacob would sweep in undetected, catch Starrick’s people unaware and leave before they even knew what had hit them.

And Jacob loved every moment of it. He loved the chaos they were causing together. He loved the speed at which they were making progress and the rush it gave him—but more than anything else, he found himself loving the seemingly endless praise and attention Roth poured onto him at every opportunity.

“So what do _you_ get out of all this?” Jacob had asked him suspiciously at their initial meeting.

“The chance to have a little fun, with the bravest man in London." Had come Roth's reply, seasoned with undertones that Jacob hadn't known how to take.

Maxwell Roth. A dangerous liaison. He was like a drug, both addictive and destructive, yet always leaving Jacob wanting more. And more. And more.

Jacob had never met anyone like him. Nothing seemed to be off limits. Everything laced with 'dears' and 'darlings'. And as unnerving as it was for him to admit it, there was something about the man that had Jacob unable to keep away. A pull. A draw. A magnetism. But, whatever it was, they were on the same page—similar somehow. Both aiming to bring London back from its knees. To throw off Starrick's choking, suffocating shackles. To bring back _freedom_.

As Roth had once said to him, “ _Freedom_ , Jacob. Steeling _that_ is far more than a sin. It denies us our _humanity."_

Still, Jacob was under no illusion that it was a risky game to be playing. If the rumours were true, then Roth could be a very dangerous man if he wanted to be, especially if you got on the wrong side of him—only Jacob didn’t appear to be on the wrong side of him. Far from it. In fact, Roth seemed more than a little taken with Jacob.

What Jacob wasn’t bargaining for, however, was that he was beginning to feel more than a little taken with Roth too.


	2. Pulled Like Magnets (M)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jacob visits Roth at the Alhambra after successfully taking out Strraick's shipment only for things to take an unexpected turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **** Please note that I sometimes use dialog and events from the game but not in the same context/order, therefore this might contain spoilers if you've not yet played the game. ****
> 
> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoy it! :)

** Chapter 2 - Pulled Like Magnets (M) **

It was getting late by the time Jacob made it to the Alhambra. Late, freezing cold and now the rain had joined in too. Perfect.

Roth’s carriage was parked down by the side entrance of the grand theatre—the usual indication that he was in residence, so Jacob made his way down the alley to the side door, careful not to walk directly under the dim glow of the street lamps above. The last thing he needed was to be recognised and for Evie to find out where he was—or worse still, who he was working with.

“I'm here to see Mr Roth.”

Lewis, Maxwell’s assistant looked down his nose at him, far from impressed.

“Again, Sir?"

Jacob shifted his weight between his feet. He wasn’t in the mood for this. It had been a long and tiring night, and now he was stood getting drenched by the rain. He didn’t come here for sarcasm—he got enough of that back on the train.

“Weapons?” Lewis glared, narrowing his eyes.

“No thank you. I've got my own.” Cocky but firm, Jacob glared back. He was hardly going to go and see Maxwell Roth unarmed. He hadn’t yet, and he wasn’t about to start now.

The hint of a sneer pulled on Lewis's lip then faded into a forced smile. “You should be on the stage, Sir. You’ve come to the right place. This way please." He swung open the door and let Jacob step inside.

\----

“Jacob, my dear! I’m so pleased you could make it!” Roth rose from his desk with his arms out-stretched as wide as his smile. His pale green eyes glinted as he shamelessly looked the assassin up and down. Jacob couldn’t help but grin back at such a warm welcome as he swaggered over to greet him.

Lewis had led Jacob through the backstage area to where Roth had an office in which he took care of most of his dealings with the theatre. Although small, the office housed a large oak desk with an elegant reading lamp on top that was casting a warm glow into the room. A red velvet sofa was set off to the side, and at the end of the sofa stood a small table covered with sheet music and what looked like manuscripts. On the opposite wall, stood a dresser holding bottles of various alcoholic beverages as well as books, postcards and a curious collection of trinkets. To the right of that was a small grey safe, and in the corner, below the window, a freshly lit fire crackled away gently.

“That will be all, Lewis." Roth gestured towards the door.

“Very good, Sir.” Lewis nodded once and turned to leave, giving Jacob a final frosty stare before he did so.

“Do sit, Jacob, dear. You look like a drowned rat, if I may be so bold."

“Charming!” Jacob replied in mock-hurt, and lowered himself onto the expensive looking sofa. He cleared his throat and leant back, casually draping an arm along the back rest in an attempt to look more relaxed than he truly was. His eyes tracked Roth as the older man walked over.

Maxwell studied him, mesmerised, drinking in the sight of the young assassin sitting there, legs splayed open invitingly on his sofa. It took his breath away and visions of ravishing him there and then flashed across his mind. Roth had certainly had his fair share of men—some of them in that very office and on that very sofa—but no, he must control himself. Take his time and do things properly. Something was different about Jacob. Jacob was like no-one he’d met before. Jacob was—

“A drink!” Roth declared, snapping himself out of his thoughts. He turned on his heels and stepped towards the dresser. “To celebrate our triumphant outing this evening!”

“Just a quick one then.” Jacob insisted. There was already a palpable tension growing between them, the last thing he needed was for alcohol to drop his guard. This was Maxwell Roth—anything could happen—and Jacob wasn’t entirely sure he’d be able to resist it if it did.

Roth poured them both a glass of something dark, then returned to the sofa and sat down beside Jacob, slightly closer than one would probably consider polite.

“Are we still talking about the alcohol, darling?” Roth teased, with more than a little suggestion hanging in his words. He leant in to hand Jacob his drink, slowly and deliberately brushing the assassin’s fingers against his own.

Jacob flinched. Roth noticed.

The assassin shifted his position and attempted to laugh it off, doing his best not to look fazed by the close proximity between them, but somehow not quite succeeding. A flush of heat crept across the bridge of his nose and burnt into his cheeks. Roth’s attention was relentless. Unflinching and shameless.

From this close, Roth smelt of a mixture of soap and woody aftershave, with just a hint of vanilla from the wax he’d used on his hair and moustache. Nothing at all like the awful stench of blood, sweat and smoke wafting from Jacob’s jacket after the night he’d just had destroying Starrick’s shipment. Of course, Roth didn’t seem to mind too much. Roth didn’t seem to mind anything at all.

The older man tipped his head and gazed at Jacob, curious, considering him. “Do I make you nervous, dear?”

Jacob scoffed. “It’ll take a lot more than a Templar to make me nervous, Roth.” It was a lie, he couldn't remember a time when he'd felt so unsure of himself. He wiped the sweat from his already beading brow and stared straight ahead. The atmosphere was becoming stifling.

“I’ll bare that in mind.” Roth smirked and squeezed Jacob's thigh, leaving his hand there a few moments longer than necessary.

Jacob tensed again, confused. He knew he should’ve recoiled, moved away, or protested...but his leg stayed put, allowing the intrusion and almost spreading wider for him. _Almost._ The hand retracted, and Jacob looked the other way, using the sight of the door to regain his composure. But he could still feel it—the ghost of Roth's touch, warm and lingering on his skin like smoke. He swallowed thickly. God, Maxwell Roth was a flirt.

“I have such great plans for us, Jacob." Roth purred in his south London drawl. "Starrick is not going to know what hit him!” 

Jacob snapped to face him, his scrambled senses immediately focusing at the mention of Starrick.

“Oh? Go on then. You have my attention. I’m all ears.” 

Roth was grinning again, eyebrows raised in delight at Jacob's sudden enthusiasm. He leant in closer and placed a finger on the younger man’s full lips, watching Jacob's eyes widen as he teased them apart slightly.

Something tugged in Jacob’s stomach at the touch. Something wanting and unfamiliar that threw him off guard. He stiffened, but didn't quite pull away. If anything, he found himself leaning forward, just barely, but enough for Roth to notice and edge forward an inch more himself. Pulled, like magnets.

"Patience Jacob, dear.” Roth murmured. His voice hung heavy in the thick air between them. “All in good time. Let us savour this glorious victory for a few more moments.”

Jacob's stomach twisted again, flipping because Roth was so close, lurching at the sudden intimacy in Roth's eyes. And yet, Jacob stayed put.

Slowly, almost cautiously, Roth traced his finger around the curve of Jacob's lips, taking his time, trailing down the dip of his chin and along the outline of Jacob's strong jaw. Then his thumb joined in and brushed across Jacob's cheek, studying him, as if committing every last inch of him to memory. So gentle, so careful—until suddenly, Roth dropped his hand and abruptly drew back, just as Jacob was beginning to get drawn in.

"Roth—" Jacob snatched hold of Roth's wrist, instinctively wanting to shove him away, and yet, at the same time, feeling compelled to pull him closer—something he only just resisted. This wasn't what he came here for…was it?

“I thought—“ Jacob didn't know what he thought. He released the pressure of his grip a little, but still kept hold, lowering Roth's hand onto the sofa. And Roth let him, watching his every move. Fascinated.

“My dear, we made a deal. I won’t let you down. You’ll come to learn that I’m a man of my word. Anything else is purely for kicks.” Roth's gaze fell to Jacob's lips again, lingering, then he straightened and clinked their glasses together with his free hand. 

"A toast, Jacob! To us!”

Jacob released Roth’s wrist but both men kept their eyes firmly locked as they took a sip of their drinks, weighing up the other’s reaction. Trying to gauge what might happen next. Jacob swallowed the warm liquid. Whisky. Strong, expensive tasting whisky. Jacob hated it as a rule, much preferring a beer if he had the choice. Roth, however, seemed to drink it like water, taking it like he took everything in life—fully, and without regret.

Jacob slumped back against the sofa, and stared ahead again, not entirely sure what to make of it all. But Roth still hadn’t taken his eyes off him, trying to work out why, out of all the men in London, the assassin had agreed to work with him. He smiled to himself and took another sip of his drink, captivated by his visitor. Jacob’s skin was glowing in the low light, glistening along the edge of his perfect profile. It wasn’t the first time Roth had observed how fine-looking Jacob was. He’d noticed the very first time he saw the assassin from his carriage, the night he watched him elegantly defeat his Blighters during a twilight raid. Jacob Frye was something very exceptional indeed.

“I’ve had my eye on you for some time.” He'd told Jacob back at their first meeting. It was the truth, in more ways than one.

“I find your heroics in battling the great Crawford Starrick quite magnificent.” Roth had meant every word.

“I’ve been picking off your soldiers one by one.” Jacob had shot back, testing him. “Doesn’t that make you angry?”

“On the contrary.” Roth had roared with laughter. "Surprise is the spice of life!”

And Jacob was certainly an unexpected but nonetheless beautiful surprise. Just the spice he needed.

Roth smiled fondly at the memory and took another large mouthful of his drink, easily downing the last of it. He set the empty glass down on the table beside him, then rose from the sofa and walked over to the small window in the corner. He glanced down at the rain soaked street below, keeping his back to Jacob, waiting a moment before he spoke again.

“We make a good team, you and I, Jacob. We complement each other rather well, wouldn’t you agree?”

Roth was relishing in having Jacob as his sole audience. The assassin’s enthusiasm ignited him. Set him on fire. And he adored the delicious feeling he was getting from making the younger man wait a while longer before he revealed his next plans. Building the intensity. Feeding his desire, as it were.

And it was working. Jacob turned to watch him, his eyes following Roth's every move, hypnotised by the older man. He shrugged and grunted in agreement to Roth’s question, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the back of his head, equally trying to gauge what the other was thinking as Roth had done to him moments earlier. Trying to figure out why Roth made him feel the way he did. Why he felt so pulled toward him. 

Although Roth was older than Jacob, it was still hard to pin an age on him. The scar down his face had disfigured his skin somewhat, but he was still a handsome man and was always immaculately dressed. His tidy dark brown hair showed just a few flecks of grey behind his ears, and his neatly trimmed moustache was waxed and styled perfectly into place. While they were almost equally matched in height, Jacob’s thicker, more muscular physique made the older man seem slightly smaller in comparison. But make no mistake, this was the man who trained the Blighters—a champion boxer in his younger days. Roth was strong and could more than likely match Jacob's strength if he needed to. You certainly wouldn't fancy your chances against him down at one of Topping's fight clubs.....but still, despite the obvious threat, there was something dizzyingly magnetic about Maxwell Roth, and it was becoming more and more obvious with each meeting that they felt overwhelmingly drawn towards each other.

Jacob took a mouthful of his own drink, also downing it in one—something he instantly regretted as it slowly burnt a trail down his throat and into his empty stomach. He quickly placed the glass down on the floor and hid his grimace behind the back of his hand. He returned his attention back to Roth and continued to wait, but the prolonged silence was becoming suffocating. It was as if Roth was testing him. Testing his nerve maybe or something more, Jacob couldn't tell. He didn't have a baseline for what was happening. With a growing sense of uncertainty, he eyed the door again. The option was still there. He didn’t have to do this. He could leave right now and get back to the train before midnight…. _if_ he wanted to. The problem was, he wasn't sure he wanted to.

Roth finally spoke, his gravelly voice cutting through the tension like a knife.

“I need a day or so to get some things in place—move a few pawns.” He started, taking his time to articulate each word suitably. He was still facing the window, but it was clear in his voice that he was enjoying himself. “But I believe I have the perfect outing for us, Jacob.” He finished, and traced his finger down the condensation that had formed on the window pane.

“ _Have_ you now?!” Jacob bounced to his feet and took a step toward him, uncoiling like a spring from the sudden break in tension. 

Roth spun round to face him, eyes glinting with glee at the re-animated assassin. Just the reaction he was waiting for. They stood just a metre or so apart.

“It won’t be easy, but—” Roth paused, taking in one last look at Jacob’s expectant expression, his child like enthusiasm. “—there’s borrowing to be done! Three of Starrick’s main henchman are about to disappear!” He declared theatrically, motioning his hands skyward. He grinned at Jacob, feeling triumphant in his delivery.

Jacob'seyes widened and he grinned back. This was exactly what he was hoping for—pain and damage to Starrick, right where it would hurt him most. Evie would never come up with something as good as this.

“You sly devil!” He growled, and a heady mix of desire and exhilaration pulsed through his entire body at what Roth was proposing. Before he even knew what he was doing, Jacob drew forwards toward the older man, unable to fight the attraction any longer.

Roth, still revelling in the reaction he was getting, responded by not wasting the opportunity to also slide a step forward, all the while keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Jacob’s.

And there they stood, inches apart, both breathing heavily in electrifying anticipation. Adrenaline coursing through their bloodstreams, waiting to see what the other would do next. Either of them could quite easily kiss or kill the other from this distance.

But it was Roth who moved first. Slowly, tentatively, he leaned in, bringing his lips to the younger man’s ear. Jacob froze. He drew in a sharp breath and held it, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. His skin tingled at the close proximity of Roth’s warm breath.

“I’d prefer to call myself shrewd, not sly, dear." Roth purred, as low as his coarse voice would allow. His moustache lightly brushed against Jacob’s cheek as spoke. Jacob shivered. “In business and in pleasure…and there’s no harm in mixing a bit of the two.”

Jacob’s head was swimming. He was beginning to feel intoxicated, though not from the alcohol. This was different. Whatever was happening felt wrong and dangerous, which somehow made him want it even more. 

“We appear to inspire one another, darling.” Roth murmured again as he traced his fingers down Jacob’s arm and took his hand while still leaning in close. So close. And Jacob let him take it, becoming less and less able to resist the man that praised him so much.

Roth kept going. He lightly nipped at Jacob’s ear, rolling the skin between his teeth, then he slowly lowered his head and brushed his lips lightly down the side of Jacob’s neck, teasing, but not quite touching his skin, testing the water and seeing just how much the assassin would allow.

Jacob closed his eyes, overwhelmed by sensation. He knew damn well that he should’ve pulled away by now, or at least shoved Roth back and got the hell out of there—but he couldn’t move. And he didn't want to move. His whole body felt consumed by the urge to pull Roth closer. Instinctively, he placed his hand on Roth’s hip to steady himself, and, ever the opportunist, Roth took that as an invitation. He slid his free hand around to the dip of Jacob’s back and pulled him closer, pressing his hips into Jacob’s. The assassin's breath hitched, his mouth dropping open at the sensation of feeling Roth’s obvious excitement against his own, which only encouraged Roth to press in harder, both of them moaning lightly into each other’s ears.

Pressed together and breathing heavily, Roth started to slowly brush his mouth across the assassin’s cheek, and before he even knew what he was doing, Jacob found himself angling his head to meet him, their lips suddenly hovering, and short, hot, whisky stained breaths falling into each other’s mouths. Hearts racing, eyes locked, Roth tipped his head and started to move in, closing the gap until—

_THUD THUD THUD_

Both men startled, snapped out of the moment by the sudden knock that rattled down on the door.

Roth let his head slump against Jacob’s shoulder with an angry growl, unable to hide his frustration at the unwelcome interruption. Both men straightened and Roth stepped back, smiling as he brought Jacob's hand to his lips and kissed the knuckle lightly, then he let go and turned sharply toward the door.

“Yes?!” He barked. "What is it?"

The door creaked open and Lewis took a step inside, keeping his eyes firmly on Roth.

“Your meeting, Sir? With the writer of the play?” He reminded his boss, looking thoroughly pleased with himself as he spoke. “He’s here to see you now, Mr Roth.”

Lewis glanced over to Jacob, and Jacob's cheeks burned as he gave him a disapproving look up and down. “He’s been waiting for quite some time…Sir.”

“Ah, right you are! Splendid. Good man, Lewis! I’d plumb forgot.” Roth shot a knowing look at Jacob. “I must’ve had something else on my mind.” He said, sucking his lips together.

“I’m afraid I must run, Jacob. Love you and leave you, as it were. Business is business after all and this theatre won’t run itself.” Roth cleared his throat. “Do be a dear, Lewis, and show Mr Frye out.”

And with that, Roth straightened his suit, and marched out of the office and across the hallway to the stage.

“Come by and see me again the day after tomorrow, my dear,” He called back, voice echoing through the empty theatre. “I should have everything in place by then”.

Jacob glanced across sheepishly to Lewis who stood waiting by the door, arms folded and one eyebrow raised, clearly unimpressed.

“Don’t you have a home to go to, Mr Frye?”

Jacob cringed at that, but took the hint, and Lewis escorted him back through the long hallway to the side door in silence. Jacob stepped out onto the cobbles and turned to say goodnight, only to be met by the door being slammed in his face before he even had the chance.

He shrugged to himself. What an odd man Lewis was.

\----

Back outside, Jacob paused and leant against the wall of the theatre, trying to take in what had just happened. His head throbbed, and his stomach felt all wrong—but there was something else too, a strange and unfamiliar undercurrent of something beneath it all. He didn’t even have a word for it.

 All he knew for sure, was that the day after tomorrow couldn’t come quickly enough.

 


	3. To Suffer No Fools

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crawford Starrick receives news that Jacob has sabotaged his shipment and intends to find out how...and why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please note that I sometimes use dialog and events from the game but not in the same context/order, therefore this might contain spoilers if you've not yet played the game.**
> 
> Thank you for reading!!

** Chapter 3: To Suffer No Fools **

Dawn broke across the horizon as the rising sun cast its golden glow across the city. Although it was late autumn, its rays still had enough strength to burn away the few remaining storm clouds from the night before, leaving a crisp freshness to the air.

Starrick glanced down from the fifth story window of his grand Westminster office and surveyed his city, his industrial empire, slowly taking a sip of his freshly made, freshly imported tea, savouring the flavour as he washed it around his mouth.

Everything was in perfect order, just as it should be.

The streets below were beginning to grind to life as every man, woman and child reluctantly dragged themselves off to work in his factories. They were the cogs in his well-oiled machine.

' _Oppress and control the working classes. Keep the Order in power',_ the Templar mantra drifted through his mind.

Starrick moved over to his desk and sat down, carefully placing his china cup and saucer down beside the pile of ledgers, records and papers he’d readied himself to begin working through.

His thoughts drifted to the Shroud, as they often did. Things had been progressing well recently. Lucy Thorne and his network of Templar agents were getting closer to discovering its location in this very city.

He was so close. It was almost in his grasp. He was on the verge of becoming _unstoppable_.

Shattering the peace of the moment, his next thought was interrupted by the firm knock that came rattling at the door.

“Come.”

The door burst open and two of Starrick’s guards barged into his office, dragging another man reluctantly along with them. They shoved him forward and planted him in front of Starrick’s desk.

“Victor Lynch to see you, Sir. He says it’s rather urgent.” One of them said in a gruff, east-end accent, before they both let go of the man’s grasp and returned to the door to stand guard, closing it firmly to stop Victor escaping.

Starrick glanced up from his paperwork and frowned, curious. He didn’t remember scheduling a meeting with the gang leader.

“Mr Lynch. And to what do I owe this pleasure?” He asked, tone somewhere between bored and irritated. His default.

Victor removed his flat cap and wrung it between his fingers. He went to speak but nothing came out.

“Well? What is it?” The Grand Master’s frown deepened. He studied the other man, tense and cowering in front of him. Starrick was a fiercely intelligent man with an inherent skill for spotting weakness—something wasn’t right here.

Victor tried to speak again. Nothing.

“SPIT IT OUT MAN!” Starrick barked, hackles rising.

Victor leapt backward and dropped his cap onto the perfectly polished floor. He quickly leant over and retrieved it, then took a deep breath to steady himself.

“I-I’m afraid it’s about your shipment, Sir.”

“My shipment, Victor?” Starrick parroted.

“Yes, Sir….the err…the shipment of ex…explosives, Sir?”

Starrick’s eyes narrowed. “And what of my shipment of explosives….Victor?”

“It’s…err…well, it’s…” Victor swallowed hard, grimacing as a lump of air passed painfully down his windpipe. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “It’s _gone,_ Sir.”

“ _Gone?!_ Gone how...exactly?” Starrick demanded, his voice rising with the acid in his stomach. 

“Blown up, Sir. Last night, Sir” Victor had no choice. He was in deep. He might as well get it all out of the way. “I got to St Pancras Station as quick as I could when I heard the explosions, but I was too late, Mr Starrick. All of it was gone, Sir…..and he….he took your _train,_ Sir..”

Starrick clenched his teeth and glared across at the terrified man, lip quivering at what he was hearing.

“ _HE?_ What do you mean _he?!_ ” His mind began racing, trying to piece everything together. Who dared to do such a thing? Who dared to cross Crawford Starrick? “And what of my guards, Mr Lynch? Why was this not stopped?!” 

Victor dropped his shoulders and winced. “Dead, Sir. He killed them all, Sir....well, all but one, Sir."

Starrick roared, blood boiling as he shot up from his chair and thumped the table hard, sending his cup and saucer rattling and his tea splashing onto his neatly ordered papers.

Victor screwed his eyes shut and kept going. He might as well, everyone in the room knew he was a dead man walking.

“The lone survivor, Sir—he’s baldly injured, Mr Starrick…he probably won’t make it…b-but he said he saw who did it, Sir. I have a _name_.”

And with that, Starrick froze, suspended in motion. _A name._ He relaxed his posture and slowly lowered himself back into his seat, readying himself for what was to come. Who was this person who thought they could interfere with his plans? Disrupt the Order. Stop progress. Rise against the machine?

Starrick leant across his desk toward the cowering man and smiled, wryly. “Forgive me, Victor. Do continue.”

Trembling, Victor obeyed his master. “It was a Mr Jacob Frye, Sir. He’s been causing trouble for weeks, trying to take over our boroughs with his gang, the Rooks. He’s almost succeeded in Whitechapel and Lamb—”

“Jacob Frye.” Starrick repeated the name slowly, turning it over in his head.

“Y-yes Sir....he 's been trying to..."

Starrick glazed over in thought and stared dead ahead. There was something familiar about that surname, _Frye_. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on. But for now, he'd heard enough. He drew in a sharp breath and raised his gloved hand, signalling Victor to stop talking.

“Mr Lynch. I employ you to oversee my operations in and around the Strand, do I not?” Starrick asked flatly.

“Yes, Sir, you—”

Starrick talked over him. “To protect and preserve the interests of the Order? No?”

“Well, of course, Sir…but—"

“Then you have failed me, Victor.” Starrick motioned to the back of the room and his two guards came forward.

Both men grabbed Victor by his arms and twisted them behind his back without so much as a warning. Victor hunched forwards and yelled and out in agony.

" _Please_ , Sir! I'll do better, Sir!" 

"Mr Lynch, you may consider your employment terminated with immediate effect." Came the Grand Master's emotionless reply.

Starrick nodded to the guards and they dutifully dragged Victor back towards the door. No-one was in any doubt as to what Starrick really meant.

“But Mr Starrick! I have a wife! _Children!_ ” Victor protested again in desperation. He dug his heels into the floor, trying to buy some time, but Starrick wasn't listening. His hand rose and one of the guard's fists swung round and caught Victor heavily in the stomach.

“I’ll make the necessary arrangements. Good day to you.” Starrick replied, not looking up from his desk.

“ _Please, Mr Starrick_!” Another blow struck Victor, this time to the head, knocking him clean out.

“GOOD DAY TO YOU!”

And with that, the door snapped shut and the room fell silent.

Starrick sat perfectly still for a moment. Ruminating on what he had just heard.

Jacob Frye.

Who was this man? What was he trying to gain from doing this?

The fact that Jacob had stolen his train didn't concern Starrick. He had hundreds. Starrick was a railroad tycoon and owned practically all the trains in England. It was the destroying of the explosives that didn't make any sense.

Was Frye a simple opportunist? Hardly. An opportunist would sooner steel the cargo than destroy it.

An anarchist? A chancer? Possibly, but why blow up the entire shipment in the middle of the night and not at a time that would cause more disruption to the city?

It was as if this act was squarely aimed at harming _him_.

But how could Frye get that lucky? Starrick had seen to it that no part of London was left unwatched by his Templar army. How did this man even know about the shipment— when it was arriving and where it would be stored? The shipment was intended to be distributed that very afternoon to increase reinforcements in key areas around the city. It was as if he knew that.

Something wasn’t right. Starrick kept very few people ‘in the know’ in regards to his dealings. There was no way this man could be so cunning.

Unless, of course, someone was _helping_ him. Unless one of Starrick's very own people was actively betraying him and helping Frye.

\-----

“MARCUS!”

The side door to the office clicked open and in walked the Grand Master’s smartly dressed assistant.

“Yes, Mr Starrick?”

“Ah, Marcus. It would seem we have an opening in our employ. See that it is filled immediately with one of our highest trained men.” Starrick glanced down and signed the letter of condolence he’d just written to Victor’s wife.

“And see that this letter is delivered post haste.”

“Very good, Sir.” The other man bowed his head, taking the letter from his boss.

“Oh, and Marcus, get me Lucy Thorne. It would seem that we have some urgent business to discuss.”

Starrick needed someone he could trust. He and Lucy had a long history together. She was his closest ally. Together, they would find out who in the Order was betraying them with Frye and crush them both like flies.

No-one betrays Crawford Starrick.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter laid the foundations to what's to come! Hope you enjoyed it!!
> 
> If you'd like to leave me feedback, it's very much appreciated and helps me improve. :)


	4. Coming Undone (E)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jacob meets with Roth again to kidnap three of Starrick's henchmen, but once back at the Alhambra, the attraction between them becomes impossible to ignore any longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****Please note that I sometimes use dialog and events from or inspired by the game but not in the same context/order, therefore this might contain spoilers if you've not yet played the game****

** Chapter 4: Coming Undone (E) **

Jacob waited until Evie had left for her early morning run before he slipped out from the train unseen. Better to be safe than sorry where his sister was concerned. She had an instinctive way of knowing when he was up to something, and an even more annoying way of prizing it out of him.

It had just turned eight according to the chimes of Big Ben as Jacob journeyed, rooftop to rooftop, over the majestic streets of Westminster on his way to the Strand. He'd taken a slight detour to try and clear his head. It’d been a long and restless night, and a mixture of nervousness and apprehension was building in the pit of his stomach at the thought of seeing Roth again. Jacob wasn’t used to feeling like this—distracted and even a little vulnerable. He was an assassin for God’s sake, he needed to keep his emotions in check. And yet, since the other night, despite trying to push it to the back of his mind, he’d been unable to think of little else but Roth.  _Maxwell Roth._

This wasn't supposed to happen. This was supposed to be about Crawford Starrick.

He growled and thumped a nearby roof tile in frustration, causing it to slip loose and slide down the roof before coming to a stop perilously close to the edge. It was a near miss, several children were playing hopscotch on the street directly below. Jacob swore at himself under his breath to pull himself together. Today was going to be huge. If all went to plan, Starrick would be left completely vulnerable and wide open to attack. He _must_ stay focused.

Soon enough, the Alhambra came into view on the horizon and Jacob slowed up a little, perching for a few moments on the building opposite while he attempted to compose himself. He blew out his cheeks and took one last glance over his shoulder towards the faint outline of Charring Cross station, just barely visible through the early morning haze. His last chance to change his mind. To go back to the train and back to Evie…but what would be the point of that? The twins were barely civil these days and she’d hardly welcome him and his help. And besides, he and Roth had made so much progress that it would be foolish not to continue.

At least Roth seemed to appreciate him.

And so Jacob pressed on. He lined up his launcher, swallowed down his nerves and scanned the street below, double checking there were no Rooks patrolling Leicester Square before he zip-lined over and slid down to the side door of the grand theatre.

“You’re eager, Mr Frye,” came Lewis’s sneering greeting, glancing down at his pocket watch as he opened the door.

“The early bird catches the worm and all that.” Jacob tried to joke. No good, Lewis looked bored with him already.

“Perhaps the worm should be more careful then, Mr Frye.” Lewis folded his arms, one eyebrow raised sharply in warning.

Jacob mirrored the sentiment. What _was_ his problem? And what was that even supposed to mean? The assassin cocked his head and they stared each other out for a few moments.

“Look, Roth asked to see me, so if you don’t mind—” Jacob took a step forward, but Lewis's hand shot up and stopped him dead.

“ _Mr_ Roth is currently otherwise engaged.” Lewis paused, eyeing the assassin as he pushed open the door. “You may come in, but you will wait for him in his office.”

“Fair enough!” Jacob shrugged and followed him into the theatre. The conversation was clearly going nowhere.

\-----

Maxwell was still dressing in his first floor bedroom on the opposite side of the theatre. He and Lewis had converted a few of the old storage rooms and prop cupboards into various living quarters a few years before. The rooms were small, but cosy nonetheless. He actually owned an immaculately decorated townhouse on the west side of the Strand, but he rarely used it these days, preferring to stay here instead. While the Alhambra was the perfect cover for his criminal operations, it was also a place where he felt less lonely—where he felt a sense of belonging.

Roth stood in front of his full length mirror and tied his wine coloured silk scarf into position, staring back at his reflection. He smiled at himself ironically and shook his head. It had been a very long time since Maxwell Roth had felt like this. He’d trained himself not to feel anything towards anyone over the years. Of course, people had their uses, (and use them he did if he was desperate) but don’t ever get too close, he would tell himself. To _feel_ , was to be weak. Vulnerable…and Maxwell didn’t go in for all of that. And yet, here he was, looking forward to seeing Jacob again. As their meetings had increased in frequency, so too had Roth’s interest increased in the young assassin. Jacob was complex and intriguing to him. Here was a fearless and deadly assassin, trained to the highest degree, and yet seemingly starved of attention and craving his adoration. And perhaps Roth even craved Jacob's attention too. Perhaps they weren’t so different after all. Different sides of the same coin, with Jacob being the better side. Just.

_Jacob Frye. His chance to have a little fun with the bravest man in London._

\-----

Jacob followed Lewis in silence, down the hallway and into the office where he'd met with Roth the night before last.

“Don’t touch anything. Mr Roth will be with you presently.” Lewis turned on his heels and left, swinging the door shut behind him. Jacob was glad to see the back of him.

Not much had changed in the office as far as Jacob could tell, apart from a curious black birdcage that housed what looked like a baby crow that now sat on the dresser. Rather an odd sight, but Roth wasn’t exactly 'run of the mill' so Jacob thought no more of it. There were a few more letters and papers piled up on Roth’s desk than last time, and his overcoat was hanging on the back of his chair, presumably ready for their outing.

Jacob walked over and ran the pads of his fingers along the fabric of the collar, remembering how close Roth had been to him two nights ago. How Roth had smelt. How he'd made Jacob feel. How much Jacob had wanted him. He held his breath and replayed the events of their previous meeting over in his mind, the first time he’d properly allowed himself to do so since it had happened. A sickening knot began to form in the pit of his stomach as the stark reality of what it all meant started to sink in.

_Jacob wanted it all again._

After what seemed like forever, the door to the office burst open and Roth marched in. Startled, Jacob fell backwards and knocked into the desk, sending an ink jar rattling across the surface with the force. He lurched forward and caught it just in time, narrowly avoiding a mess on the floor. Roth chose not to notice, but the normally stealth like assassin cursed himself under his breath again in embarrassment. His second near miss of the day. What the hell was wrong with him? _Pull. Yourself. Together._

“Jacob, my dear! How wonderful to see you again.” Roth beamed, crossing the room to greet him. He drew in close and squeezed the younger man on both arms, then stepped back to take a good look at him. Jacob was looking very fine this morning. Very fine indeed.

“Such a beautiful sight for my sore old eyes—and at such an early hour!” Roth complimented him and held Jacob's gaze for a moment, lingering, just like he had two nights before— and there it was again, that feeling coursing between them. Both of them sensed it.

“Roth.” Jacob nodded his greeting, glancing down to conceal the smile that insisted on spreading across his face.

Jacob was still feeling vaguely nauseous. It was similar to the feeling he'd had when Aleck let him try the rope launcher for the very first time. A mixture of danger with an odd attraction to the thrill of it all—the gamble being that he could fall to his death at any moment. _Die, or fly high_ , he’d joked. And Jacob liked the risk. He'd never been one to do things by halves. Maybe that was why he kept coming back to Roth. The thrill of dancing with the devil himself.

Jacob lifted himself backwards to sit on Roth’s desk and cleared his throat, attempting to defuse the now familiar tension that was growing in the room.

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, dear, but I’m all yours now.” Roth winked and spread open his arms as if to invite Jacob in, over-friendly as always. “Are you all set for our outing?”

“Of course!” Jacob flexed his fingers and gave his knuckles a loud crack. He was overcompensating, but relieved to feel his focus return at the mention of what was to come. Jacob craved more action, and Roth certainly seemed to have no problem providing it. And it felt good to be back around the man, no matter how wrong that felt to admit.

“That’s what I like to hear. A man who is eager to get straight down to business!” Roth leant forward and let out a filthy smirk before springing back upright. “Then let us make haste.”

“Lew-is!” He roared, and stamped down hard on the wooden floor. "My carriage!” 

Footsteps sounded in the corridor as Lewis went off to prepare the horses and bring the carriage around to the side entrance.

Jacob's heart sank into his stomach, reminded of the frosty exchange he'd just had with Roth's assistant at the door.

“I don’t think Lewis likes me very much.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, dear." Roth walked over to the assassin, still perched like a vision on his desk. He brushed past Jacob's leg and reached to retrieve his coat from the chair beside him. Jacob flinched, and his breath caught in his throat a little louder than he'd have liked. Roth noticed, of course, moustache twitching as his mouth turned up at the sides in amusement.

“He’s just doing his job. Protecting me and my interests—and a very fine protector he is too! You’d be surprised at the rough types I have showing up at my door at all hours."

“I’m sure I wouldn’t.” Jacob cocked an eyebrow, attempting to play, but Roth's smile faded and a frown settled across his forehead. He cast a curious glance at Jacob as he shrugged his coat onto his shoulders and slowly buttoned the front. The atmosphere cooled a little.

“Besides, he has other uses.” Roth continued slowly, still a little taken aback from Jacob’s retort.

“I _bet_ he does..” Jacob tried again, but it wasn’t working. Roth's expression hardened, clearly unimpressed by what he was implying.

“Don’t be so crass, Jacob, it doesn’t suit you.” He snapped.

Both men said nothing for a few moments. The young assassin seemed to have hit a nerve. Jacob swallowed thickly and looked the other way, his ears burning from the telling off.

“Sorry, I—“

“Think nothing of it, my dear. Just a bit of fun—and I’m up for that.” Roth's smile returned. He sensed a hint of jealously in Jacob, which amused him—and if he was honest with himself, he quite liked it.

“Lewis is loyal, that’s all. Very few men are these days." Roth looked Jacob directly in the eyes as if to labour the point and check for a reaction in him. Jacob deliberately didn't flinch, watching Roth too, wondering if they were testing each other. Was it 'just a bit of fun', or were they playing games? Jacob still couldn't be sure.

“Besides, you’ll be pleased to hear that Lewis won’t be joining us until later. I’m coming along this time. It will just be you, and me. _Together._ There’s no sense in giving you all the glory.” Roth elbowed Jacob and winked, the mischievous grin was back.

“You will drive, and I’ll sit with you up front. We’re going to need all the space inside for our _special_ cargo.” Both men grinned at each other darkly. _Starrick’s henchman_.  

“So what’s the plan? Who’s first?” Jacob pushed, energised by the thought of what they were about to do. Roth's face lit up. He turned on a bounce and marched to the centre of the room, clapping his hands together and licking his lips, straightening his suit and smoothing his hair—getting himself ready to deliver his delicious scheme to his eager audience.

“First, we have Miss Hattie Cadwallader, Starrick’s art dealer." He began, stretching his arms out to the sides as if to emphasize the grandness of his words. “Not too much of a loss, the man has terrible taste, but still, it will hurt him personally, I have no doubt.”

“Go on.” Jacob urged, impatient with the theatrics already. Roth, however, was adoring every moment of it.

“Then, we go after Starrick’s head of security, one Benjamin Raffles!” Roth delivered the words like he was narrating the greatest show on earth, the actor in him taking centre stage.

“Head of _security_? What about your Blighters? Your men? Is that going to be a problem?” Jacob stopped him, reminding himself that this was Maxwell Roth and he could be walking himself into an elaborate trap.

“Not at all, Jacob!” Roth instantly dismissed him, laughing. “Besides, all’s fair in love and war, my dear.” He continued, drawing his hand over his heart dramatically, oblivious to Jacob rolling his eyes while he readied himself to deliver his closing line.

“And finally, my darling Jacob—” He swooped forward and leant in. Jacob half expected him to produce a drumroll.

" _Chester Swinebourne._ A copper by day, and a filthy snitch by night.” Roth’s tone changed and his menace returned, his lip curling to match the darkening in his eyes.

“If we cut him from the pack, then we completely sever Starrick’s ties to the police force. Our Grand Master will be damaged most considerably.”

Both of them grinned wickedly, each a mirror image of the other. Another surge of energy passed between them.

“I told you I had great plans for us, did I not?” Roth's voice was low, and slow, and he edged another step towards Jacob who was still perched, open legged and looking deliciously welcoming on his desk.

“And how do I know I can trust you? I’m not here to play games, Roth.” Jacob took the opportunity to ask while they were both enveloped in the moment. His heart picked up pace, pounding from their sudden closeness, the anticipation between them building—just like it had two nights before.

“No games, Jacob. Like I said, just a bit of fun. Surely you can’t deny an old man that?” Roth purred, low and close. His gaze fell onto Jacob’s full and inviting lips, then traced back up to his eyes. Hungry.

“Oh?” Jacob was no better, gazing up from under his heavy eyebrows, breath shallow, mouth open slightly, tongue brushing along his lower lip. Feeling that pull, smouldering between them again.

Roth closed the final few inches between them and pressed himself against Jacob’s legs, pinning him in position. Watching the assassin's reaction, he slowly placed his hands on Jacob’s knees and spread them wider apart. Jacob tensed his back and immediately went to stop him, but Roth snatched his wrist, and shoved his hand down hard onto the desk. Jacob’s heart started racing—it was the arm with his gauntlet. He pulled back and tried to resist him, but Roth had his legs wedged and he couldn’t move. _Trapped_. 

Keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Jacob’s, Roth picked up his bladed letter opener with his free hand and slid it into Jacob’s palm. He curled the assassin’s fingers around the ornate silver handle, then calmly brought Jacob’s hand up to his own throat and pressed the cold edge of the blade against his skin, never once taking his eyes off Jacob’s face. Watching his every move.

Jacob’s eyes frantically darted between the blade and Roth’s eyes. He tried to resist again but Roth held firm, and for the first time in his life, Jacob started to panic. He couldn't breathe, didn’t know how to react. The gauntlet, his hidden blade—if he attempted to pull away this close, he risked triggering the mechanism and killing Roth instantly. Was that what Roth wanted?

“My dear,” Roth finally spoke, sincere as he gazed into Jacob’s eyes. “If I fail to provide you with the chance to cause Starrick some pain, then you can charge into this theatre, and kill me yourself.”

And with that, Roth moved Jacob’s hand and slowly dragged the blade across his throat. Jacob watched in horror as the tip pulled and caught and snagged at the skin as it went, leaving a thin white graze as it nicked Roth's Adam’s apple and a small bead of blood bloomed from the cut and trickled down onto his red silk scarf.

 _“ROTH!”_  

_He just said no games—so what the hell was this?_

With his other hand, Jacob took the risk and broke free. He swiped at Roth’s arm and knocked the letter opener clattering to the floor. And for a split second, nothing happened—both men glared at each other, eyes wild, chests heaving, hearts racing—until simultaneously, they both surged forward and snatched hold of each other by the lapels of their coats, grunting as they wrestled against each other’s strength. Jacob knew Roth was strong but didn’t quite expect this level of resistance as they fought for control, twisting and yanking their bodies in a vain attempt to hold the other down.

For a moment, Jacob thought he felt the older man weaken a little, but before he could take advantage, Roth slid a hand underneath his arm and managed to get a grip behind him, and with a low growl of pleasure, he dragged Jacob to the edge of the desk and crushed them together hard. The danger and the passion of the moment was turning out to be a heady mix for both of them.

And from there, instinct took over. Roth gripped a fistful of Jacob’s hair and yanked his head closer, grinding his lips against him. And Jacob kissed him back, equally as hard and equally as aggressive, banging and scraping their teeth together, tongues rigid and dominating, desperate to get as much as they could from each other. In that moment, without Roth’s endless innuendos and Jacob’s overcompensating bravado, the honesty of their feelings broke through and the tension that had built between them in recent weeks, rose up to the surface, begging to be released.

Jacob was hard, they both were. And when Roth moaned and twisted his fingers in Jacob’s jacket to pull him closer, Jacob couldn’t do a thing to stop himself moaning and rolling his hips back against Roth's, craving the heady pressure of Roth's erection pressed tightly between his thighs. He hooked his legs around Roth's hips and locked them together in an attempt to hold him in place, but Roth was having none of it. He instantly tensed his back in resistance. And with another deep and heavy growl, Roth mustered all of his strength and seized Jacob's knees from behind him, then he shoved them back down onto the desk and held them there. He broke the kiss and leant into Jacob's ear, panting in hot, heavy breaths...

“Back here….the Alhambra…. _t_ _onight_.”

“Sir, your carriage is ready." Came a call from the hallway.

“Shall we?”

 -----

Despite what had just happened between them, both men managed to keep their minds firmly focused on the job at hand and kidnapping Starrick’s key henchmen (and woman) went to plan almost effortlessly. Roth had perfectly timed and spaced each kidnap to allow for a window of opportunity with the fewest number of guards on duty to get in Jacob’s way or risk him being seen.

Jacob was in his element. It was what he did best. In and out and straight to the point, dragging his targets back to Roth’s nearby waiting carriage like a dog retrieving sticks for its owner, and being heaped in praise and admiration along the way. It was all going smoothly until Jacob came to Starrick’s head of security, Benjamin Raffles—Jacob hadn’t intended on him being quite as stout as he was, and didn’t deliver him back to Roth quite as ‘alive’ as he had liked.

“Accidents happen, my dear.” Had been Roth’s amused response at seeing Jacob’s blood soaked coat upon returning. A world away from the earful that Evie would have offered him..

The sun was already setting by the time the duo arrived at the docks where Lewis was waiting with Roth’s private boat. “Better to offload in the shadows,” Roth told him as they hauled the gagged Templars out of the carriage and onto the boat. Roth had a short word with one of his personal guards about the disposal of the Templars at sea, who bowed his head in obedience and took to the helm. Roth then returned to the dock, and watched as the boat set off down the Thames and out of sight.

He spun back to face Jacob, flashing a sinful smile as he bowed in triumph. Both men began laughing, and Jacob's body pulsed with a mixture of relief and sheer exhilaration at what they’d just managed to pull off together. Starrick's influence had just become considerably weaker—all because of them. The perfect team. A devastating duo. Roth was certainly a man of his word, Jacob was learning. Evie would've never agreed to something as bold as this.

Without thinking, Jacob stepped closer, but Roth held up his hand and nodded toward the carriage. And Jacob knew what he meant. It was too risky to stay there. They had to keep moving.

The journey back to the Alhambra was fairly short in comparison to the ground they’d covered that afternoon. From the docks, Lewis drove Roth in his carriage, while Jacob went the way of the rooftops to avoid them being seen together or raise suspicions. He tried not to think about what might happen with Roth once they got back to the theatre—or what going back actually meant. Or even how willingly he seemed to follow and the sickening tug of need that was stirring in his stomach again. Instead, he focused solely on the task of tracking Roth’s carriage as he undulated, skimmed and soared through the cool night air, until he finally watched Lewis turn onto Leicester Square and draw up alongside the theatre.

Jacob got to the side door first, and was arrogantly leaning against it with his arms folded when Lewis pulled in.

“Evening, Lewis.” Jacob tried again with him. Nothing. Lewis didn’t even look over.

The carriage door opened and Roth stepped out, raising an eyebrow in amusement when he caught Jacob’s stance at the door.

“I won't be needing the carriage again tonight, Lewis. If you’d be so kind, I’ll take my supper in the parlour after I bid Mr Frye goodnight.”

Lewis nodded, then rode the carriage around the back to secure it and settle the horses for the night, entering the theatre via the back door to begin preparing Roth’s supper.

\-----

Roth unlocked the side door and pushed it open, allowing Jacob to enter the theatre first, ever the gentleman, before following and closing it behind him.

The narrow hallway was still in darkness but for a pale slither of moonlight casting a cool glow from the small decorative window above the door. Jacob was still buzzing from the day’s events—or maybe it was from the anticipation, or nerves, he couldn't tell anymore, but before he had a chance to make a joke, he felt himself grabbed by the waist from behind, spun around and slammed backwards into the wall, causing a handful of books to tumble to the floor from the bookcase further down the hall.

Impulsively Jacob fought back. He gripped hold of Roth's shoulders and they scrambled and pushed against each other again for dominance. But the element of surprise had left him on uneven footing, and before Jacob could react, Roth seized both of his wrists and pinned them him above Jacob's head, holding him firmly against the wall.

They glared at each other for a few moments then, eyes dark and hungry, breathless from the fighting, neither of them  knowing how to handle the sheer intensity of attraction between them.

“I thought we weren’t playing games, Roth.” Jacob panted, half grinning, half aroused and terrified by how much he wanted him.

“I told you, darling, no games.” Roth brought his mouth closer, slurring his words, their lips just barely touching. “Just the chance to have a little fun with the bravest man in London.”

And then Roth kissed him. His lips bruised down onto Jacob’s, knocking his head back into the wall with the force. It hurt, but Jacob pushed back against him, deepening the kiss and being equally as rough, their tongues roaming and exploring each other’s mouths, frantically taking in each other’s taste.

Jacob yanked his hands free and slipped them around to the small of Roth’s back, pulling him in closer, needing to feel more of the man that adored him so much. Roth responded, and placed a possessive grip on Jacob’s behind, pulling him into his hips to grind him a little—but not too much yet—just enough to leave Jacob moaning into his mouth when he caught him right. And God, his assassin's moans were magnificent.

Roth eventually broke off for air, raking Jacob’s thick locks with his free hand, still pressing him hard against his groin with the other, smiling at the flushed, wide eyed expression on the assassin’s glistening face. The beautiful, the exquisite Jacob Frye.

“Doesn’t fun lead to games?" Jacob rasped, breath already ragged and struggling to keep it together.

Roth smirked and leant in to Jacob’s ear, his hot breath falling lightly on the assassin’s neck.

“Well, Jacob...“ he murmured, slowly sliding his knee between Jacob’s legs, spreading them wider apart. He brought his hand around and snaked his sly fingers down the assassin’s chest, pressing along the outline of his tight muscles through his shirt— something he’d wanted to do since the moment he’d set eyes on him —then stopped short at Jacob's bulging groin, fingers spread either side, the heat of his palm hovering there, lingering and teasing around the edge.

Jacob’s breath stuttered, and he bucked his hips slightly in needy anticipation—so hard, and throbbing and waiting.

“That depends on who you’re playing with, my dear.” And with that, Roth sucked the soft skin of Jacob's ear lobe between his teeth and bit down as he effortlessly unfastened Jacob's trousers and slid his hand inside.

" _Ah_ —"

Jacob fell forward and gripped Roth’s coat, knees buckling beneath him when Roth’s long fingers curled around him and pulled him free. Roth dipped in to kiss him again, slower this time. He let his lips trace along Jacob's cheek as he started to move his hand in long and slow strokes. Deliberately taking his time and keeping his touch as light as possible. Teasing his assassin, and drawing a gloriously low groan through Jacob's gritted teeth when he dragged his thumb a little.

"God,  _Roth—"_

Roth kept going, watching Jacob's every reaction as he tightened his grip and gradually stroked faster, relishing at the stifled noises falling from Jacob’s lips. And Roth answered back, moaning when Jacob moaned, mouthing along his jawline and nipping at his neck, rolling the skin between his teeth and leaving his mark—something for his assassin to remember him by when he thought of him later, he hoped.

Jacob shuddered, overcome with the sensation of Roth on him, kissing him, touching him. It felt so good, _so good_ , better than anything he’d felt before. He closed his eyes, barely able to stop himself as he started rocking into Roth's fist—but no sooner as he did so, Roth’s free hand dug sharply into his thigh and pinned him back against the wall—stopping him in his tracks and taking back control.

“Patience, darling.” Roth murmured and nipped Jacob’s jaw in warning, then he flashed a mischievous grin as he suddenly started stroking harder and faster, the cabinet next to them bouncing and rattling in time with his quickening pace. He watched in delight as Jacob threw back his head and groaned beneath him. And Roth adored seeing him like this—totally taken over by the pleasure that he so obviously needed from him. Jacob Frye. So handsome. So striking. So wonderful. Roth pressed his forehead against Jacob’s, grinning at the beauty of it all.

Jacob couldn't take it all in. Feelings of guilt and pleasure conflicting and colliding in him. He'd been touched before, but never by a man. He shouldn’t be enjoying this, but here he was, _craving_ him. Craving Maxwell Roth. Wanting every last piece of him. Jacob attempted to laugh back and say something—anything, but Roth just continued to grin at him. Not his usual, menacing grin—this was softer, gentler, and just for a moment, Jacob felt completely taken over by him, everything else fading into the background. Evie, Starrick, his father, the Brotherhood. Nothing but Maxwell Roth—staring into the glisten of his dancing eyes, lit by the moonlight from the window above.

“ _Beautiful_ , Jacob.”

The intimacy of the moment had Roth getting rougher. He gripped a fistful of Jacob’s hair and twisted it between his fingers, pulling hard as he watched Jacob’s breath became more laboured with every ruthless pump of his fist. And Roth was so hungry for him too, so rock hard himself, but he had to wait, now wasn't the time. Not yet.

Jacob was panting, heat building and tightening in his stomach. He wanted to warn Roth, to tell him that he was close, but couldn't get his words to form anything other than a whimper. Instead, he buried his head in Roth’s shoulder and bit down into the fabric of his jacket, groaning loudly as his body jerked and he came hard into Roth’s hand.

Roth slowed right down, but continued to stroke him lightly, holding him until Jacob finally recovered and lifted his head to look at him. At what a sight he was. Jacob's eyes were wide and glassy, his cheeks flushed and gleaming and beautiful. And Roth couldn't help but smile as he planted a light, open mouthed kiss on Jacob's forehead. He wiped his hand clean on his shirt, then ran his fingers through his assassin's hair, smoothing away the damp strands that had collected at his hairline with his thumb.

He was being so careful. So gentle. So soft. And it was almost too much.

And then he said it again. “ _Beautiful_ , Jacob.”

And all Jacob could do was smile back sheepishly in return—still clinging on to Roth's coat to keep himself upright, barely able to believe what had just happened. He didn’t even want to think about it. Nothing felt real. He couldn’t breathe, couldn't speak. And yet every bone in his body ached for more. More of Maxwell Roth.

Roth was still gazing at him, eyes twinkling in amusement. His hand slid round and cupped the back of Jacob’s head. “Darling, look at you.” He rumbled, face painted with his mischievous grin again. Jacob flushed and leant in to kiss him, both of them being softer with each other for the first time that night. Jacob tugged the older man closer and Roth fell against him, kissing him back and lazily playing with his tongue. He would've kissed Jacob Frye all night if he could.

Jacob could feel that Roth was still hard against his thigh as they kissed. Cautiously, he began to smooth his hand across Roth's chest, then slid down to the front of his trousers and pressed against the outline of Roth's erection, stroking it lightly through the fabric with his palm. It felt the right thing to do. The chance to please Roth back. Return the favour. Gain more of the approval he craved to receive from him.

And it was working. Roth started to moan into his mouth, rocking up against Jacob's hand to meet with his strokes, but as soon as Jacob started to rub harder, Roth hissed and abruptly gripped his wrist to stop him. 

He couldn't let Jacob touch him yet. Not like this. Not until he was certain..

Jacob froze and broke off the kiss, frowning at the older man, confused. But Roth just smiled and leant back in.

“Not tonight, darling. Seeing you was pleasure enough." He purred against Jacob's ear, then gave him one last, lingering peck on the cheek, before stepping back to admire his handiwork. Jacob was a mess, but an exquisite one at that.

Jacob wasn't sure if he should feel relieved or rejected, but he didn't have time to dwell on it—his attention was taken by the cool air dancing across his exposed skin now that Roth had moved away. And once again his cheeks were burning with embarrassment.

Roth smiled, and sighed in contentment at the sight. Jacob Frye, pressed against the wall in his hallway, shirt rucked up to his navel, trousers grazing his thighs. Spent and speechless. What a night they'd had—what a night indeed. He reached down and took Jacob's hand. Bending, he brought it to his lips and kissed his assassin's knuckles softly, just as he had two nights ago.

“Alas, my dear, I'm afraid I must say goodnight. Sadly, I have things I must take care of.” He corrected his posture, brushing himself down and straightening his own shirt and suit. “We have made great inroads. Today, you were magnificent, darling, and I look forward to the pleasure of your company again on our next outing together."

Jacob understood. It was late and time to leave. He needed to get back to the train anyway—back to Evie, and perhaps, back to reality. He quickly tucked himself back into his underwear and buttoned his trousers, hoping that his knees would hold as he leant back off the wall and attempted to stand upright through his wooziness.

“I’ll be at the National Gallery on Tuesday afternoon. Two days. Come find my carriage, we have more work to do. We’ll speak again then.”

 ----

Jacob stepped out into the theatre’s alley and back into the cool night air once more. Despite the soup of emotions swirling around his body, he knew he didn’t have time to think about what had just happened. He had to get back to the train, _fast_. There was no way Evie was going to catch him out tonight.

But just as he lined his rope launcher up with the roof opposite, a noise startled him from behind. Jacob readied his hidden blade and swung round, only to find Lewis, scraping what looked to be the remains of Roth’s spoiled supper into the nearby bin. And judging by the look of displeasure on his face, Lewis had a very good idea of what had just gone on in the hallway. Jacob briefly thought about going over to him, but decided against it. Lewis had made it quite clear he wasn’t welcome at the Alhambra. So instead, Jacob turned back and began to walk away.

Then Lewis spoke.

“Mr Frye.” He said solemnly. Jacob stopped, but didn’t turn around. "You should be very careful with whom you play games with.”

Jacob had two choices here. Press Lewis and find out what he was getting at, or get home to avoid confrontation with Evie.

A train could be heard in the distance.

And with that, Jacob was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. My. Goodness. This chapter was hard!! I must be a mad for starting with this pair! :D
> 
> If you'd like to leave me feedback, it's very much appreciated and helps me improve. :)


	5. Lewis Laments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What the butler saw! :D Lewis ponders what he witnessed between Jacob and Roth, while Starrick formulates a plan with Lucy Thorne to find his betrayer and bring them to justice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please note that I sometimes use dialog and events from or inspired by the game but not in the same context/order, therefore this might contain spoilers if you've not yet played the game**
> 
> Thank you for reading!!  
> 

**Chapter 5** **: Lewis Laments** (The Same Night)

Jacob had been right. Lewis had seen everything that happened between him and Roth in the moonlit hallway that night. After not finding Maxwell in his parlour, Lewis had crossed the stage to his boss’s office, guessing that he was working there instead. As it was late, he’d presumed that Jacob had already left, so Lewis wasn't prepared when he appeared at the end of the hallway, holding the tray of Roth’s freshly prepared supper and saw them both frantically kissing each other by the door. He’d been so taken aback by what he witnessed that he'd stumbled backwards in the shadows, causing the tray to wobble and the recently poured glass of wine to spill onto Roth’s supper, spoiling it in the process.

He really hadn’t meant to stay so long watching them, but seeing his boss so totally immersed in Jacob seemed to immobilise him for a moment. His worse fears confirmed.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t had his suspicions about them. The frequency of Jacob’s visits, their flustered appearance when he’d interrupted them in Roth’s office earlier in the week, the gradual assent in Roth’s mood and demeanour…..but Lewis had hoped that Jacob was just going to be like all of the others. Roth had many a gentleman caller to the Alhambra, but none had ever come back more than once. _Ever_. In fact, you could say that it was all very cold and clinical. Roth would take what he needed and send them on their way. They would _not_ be invited back. No attachment, no love lost.

As far as Lewis was concerned, Roth was not one to concern himself with the constrictions of courtship. He bored much too quickly for that. So why his fascination with Jacob?

 _Lewis_ was the only constant in Roth’s life. Not some fresh faced, disrespectful, scruffy looking smart-aleck who’d barely been in London five minutes. It was _Lewis_ that had been at Roth’s side ever since he had acquired the Alhambra, helping him with the shows and productions, the renovations and upkeep, as well as running his day to day errands and driving him to his appointments. Nothing was too much trouble. Lewis was always there and always ready when Roth needed him. After all, Roth had taken him under his wing and given him shelter when the world had tossed him onto the street to die. Roth had shown him some humanity. It was the least he could do by helping him in return. Whereas this _Jacob_ character hadn’t earned the right to be held in such high regard by Roth, no matter how fancy his brutish moves against the Templars were.

No-one knew Roth as deeply as Lewis felt he did.

And perhaps he didn’t want anyone to feel the way he felt about him either.

\------

By now, it was almost midnight. Starrick was sat in his armchair, basking in the warm glow of the well-lit fire in his office, watching the flames spit and crackle as they danced and toyed playfully with each other. On any other night, he'd be at home by now, reading his newspaper and drinking his nightcap before turning in to bed. Tonight, however, there was still business to attend to.

In light of his new found information from (the late) Victor Lynch, he’d summoned his second in command, Lucy Thorne, to discuss what they were to do about Jacob Frye and his ‘helper’.

She was late, however. Several hours late.

Crawford Starrick didn’t appreciate being made to wait.

At just turned twenty five past twelve, a knock finally came at the door.

“Come.”

“I’m so sorry Crawford.” Lucy entered, looking more harassed than usual. “I would've been here much sooner, but I‘m afraid there has—"

“Miss Thorne." Starrick stopped her and motioned for her to sit in the armchair opposite. He was in no mood for long winded excuses. By nature, Starrick had an aura of intolerance about him. Strict and rigid to the tune of his self imposed rules.

Starrick and Lucy had known each other for many years having crossed paths on their mutual quest to find the Shroud of Eden. The Grand Master had been impressed by Lucy’s research and determination in tracking down the ancient artefact, and after some persuasion (by Lucy), he had inducted her into the Templar Order where she became his chief operative charged with continuing the quest to find it.

Although she would never reveal it, Lucy carried a torch for Starrick and secretly dreamed that one day he would awake from his single minded obsessions with the Shroud, and magically fall deeply in love with her—perhaps even ask for her hand in marriage, but in reality, she knew she should be content with what she little she got from him.

“Lucy," Starrick began, solemnly. “It would seem that we have a traitor in our midst.” His hand went to his moustache and traced the outline down either side with his thumb and forefinger, slow and steady, trying to keep himself measured. 

“I have reason to believe that a boy by the name of Jacob Frye has taken it upon himself to join forces with one of our very own Templar comrades, and is activity seeking to bring down the Order.” 

There was an awkward pause and Lucy looked down into her lap.

“Crawford… _I know_.” She said, cautiously.

“You _know?"_  Starrick’s voice cracked. " _Explain!”_

“I tried to _explain_ when I arrived!" Lucy was slightly short with him. She was probably the only person who could get away with doing so, anyone else would have suffered the same fate as Victor. “I would’ve been here hours sooner, but news reached me this evening from my associates that no less than _three_ of our Templar agents have gone missing. Hattie Cadwallader, Benjamin Raffles and Chester Swinebourne. All presumed dead. And not only that, all three were kidnapped by a hooded assailant who was seen dragging our friends to a waiting carriage, several streets away.”

Starrick glared at her as the magnitude of what she was saying sank in. His supply of exquisite paintings. His protection over his assets. His personal control over the laws of London. All gone in one afternoon. All taken by this _boy_ and this _traitor_.

Lucy thought it best to keep talking. By now Starrick was visibly trembling, his face reddened under the strain of his fury, his knuckles white from his deepening grip on his armchair. There was more to come and he wasn’t going to like it.

“You are indeed correct, Crawford. The assailant has been named as Jacob Frye. I’m told he's formed a gang called the Rooks and has been trying to overthrow key areas under our protection. Only lately, he seems to be receiving help from somewhere and is going after more, shall we say, personal and damaging targets."

The Grand Master didn’t answer. It was never a good sign when Starrick stayed silent.

“I’m afraid I’m yet to identify who the person with the carriage was. My agent advised me that the group of Blighters that saw him or her don’t seem willing to talk. Perhaps they are protecting them or—”

“Oh, they _will_ talk, Lucy.” Starrick glowered into the flames of the fire and lowered his monotone voice. “Their loyalty must lie with me and me alone. You will bring the Blighters to me. Each and every one of them. I will see them here in my office tomorrow. By sundown we shall know who is betraying us and why. He or she will be brought to justice and this nonsense ends. Do I make myself clear?”

Lucy nodded, but her heart sank. It wasn’t going to be quite that simple. There was still something she hadn’t yet managed to tell him.

“Of course, Crawford, but I’m afraid there's more. In investigating a lead in our quest for the Shroud, I've had the misfortune of coming into conflict with someone who is following a similar path and eager to get to it first. A Miss Evie Frye…none other than the twin sister of Jacob Frye. They're  _A_ _ssassins_ Crawford.”

_Of course._

Starrick rose from his chair in silence and calmly walked over to the window, glancing out over the dark, fog choked streets below. _Now it all made sense_. The age old battle between the Order of the Knights Templar and the Brotherhood of Assassins. Fighting a hidden war against their clashing ideologies to deny the Order the right to reign supreme.

Starrick flexed his gloved fingers as he processed the task that lay ahead of them.

“Miss Thorne, the Shroud can only be worn by one _,_ and that one is _me_. It can only be placed on _my_ shoulders. I will not be stopped. Not by traitors or conspirators, not by thieves, and most certainly not by these people calling themselves _‘Assassins’._ ”

Starrick continued to stare out across the moonlit horizon, flanked by the billowing chimneys of his factories.

“And so it would seem that we have urgent business to attend to. I will find out who is betraying the Order, and you will take care of the Frye twins. Is that understood?” He turned to face Lucy who was already standing and readying to leave.

“They will not know what hit them, Crawford. You have my word.”

“Your passion is most welcome Miss Thorne, but we must be careful. Discreet. We cannot let our emotions disrupt the lawful structures of society. If we do that, the enemy wins.”

Lucy lowered her voice. “It will happen in the shadows. Miss Frye will hang from the gallows and I will flay her brother as he comes to save her.”

“I suppose it must be done. Take no chances. Increase the Templar presence in London. We alone protect this City of Light.”

“Yes Crawford…and then we will take the Shroud and cast aside the shadows. _Together.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise if this coming across as a slow burner or long winded. I’m trying to divide the chapters between character groups to keep events separate….also, as I've warned before, this is my first ever piece so I’m still settling in to a writing style and learning that I do tend to go on a bit….
> 
> As always, if you'd like to leave me feedback, it's very much appreciated and helps me improve. :)


	6. Soothed (E)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jacob fights with Evie as she begins to notice his distractions and things with Roth deepen to another level.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the duo are off again, unaware that Lewis knows about them and that Starrick is soon to be on their tails.  
> PS - I'm writing Roth from a different angle here - I hope you like it.
> 
> ****Please note that I sometimes use dialog and events from or inspired by the game but not in the same context/order, therefore this might contain spoilers if you've not yet played the game****
> 
> Thank you for reading!

** Chapter 6: Soothed **

“And where do you think you’re going?” Evie glowered down the train at her twin brother.

It was a little past midday and Jacob knew he had to leave soon if he was going to get to the National Gallery on time to meet with Roth again. He'd gradually edged his way to the back of the train to make an exit without being noticed, but apparently, he'd failed—Evie missed _nothing._

Jacob winced, and turned around to face his sister.

“Nowhere.” He shrugged, feigning interest in some of their souvenirs collecting dust on the back shelf as he spoke. “I have something I need to take care of, that's all.” Jacob had many talents, but lying wasn't one of them—something that his sister was acutely aware of.

“Erm no, you’re coming with me.” Evie moved in on her brother for closer scrutiny. “The Kenway Mansion, Jacob? The Journal I took from Lucy Thorne’s carriage seems to point to something of interest there. Don’t tell me your forgot?”

“No—of course I didn’t forget!” Jacob scoffed. Another lie. Since the other night, his mind had been unable to focus on anything but the hallway at the Alhambra, and the image of Roth making him come.

“Good. Then we need to leave now if we’re to get there before Miss Thorne and her people. This could well be the lead we’ve been looking for.” Evie turned to gather her notebooks and research papers from the desk.

“Then I’ll catch you up. I won’t be long.”

Jacob was thinking on his feet. He had to leave now too. It would take him a good forty minutes to get to the National Gallery from where the train was currently located— and it was getting even further away with every second the wheels thundered along. He turned and walked toward the carriage door to leave just as Evie’s hand clamped in an iron clad grip around his wrist and swung him back around to face her.

“Jacob, we agreed this yesterday! What’s got into you? Were you even listening to me?!” She shook his arm in time with her words.

He didn’t answer. Yesterday had been hazy to say the least. After half-heartedly helping the Rooks with a few strongholds, Jacob had ended up getting blind drunk to help the day pass quicker and to numb the confusing thoughts he was repeatedly having about Roth.

Evie waited, her eyes searching him—studying her brother’s face for some kind of sign that would help her make sense of what was happening. Instead, Jacob intentionally stayed blank and emotionless. Something wasn’t right.

“You’re hiding something, Jacob. Tell me what it is!” She demanded, tightening her grip.

Jacob glanced over her shoulder at the mantel clock. This was taking too long. He really needed to get out of there before Evie found him out.

“For God’s sake, Evie, why can’t you just trust me for once?” Jacob yanked his arm free and stepped back.

Agnes and a few of the Rooks had gathered at the end of the carriage to see what was going on, mumbling and whispering between themselves.

“ _Trust_ you? That’s rich! You’ve been acting odd for weeks. Coming home at all hours, distracted, covered in blood with no clear explanation—and you expect me to _trust_ you?” As Evie’s voice grew louder, and a few more Rooks appeared in the doorway, craning their necks for a better look.

Jacob's shoulders dropped and he shook his head with a sigh. Here they were again, arguing about the same old thing _. Trust,_ or Evie’s lack thereof. Ordinarily, neither sibling would back down and they would continue to fight, back and forth, both as strong-willed and as stubborn as the other. But to Evie’s surprise and dismay, Jacob held up both hands in defeat.

“Fine! It looks like you have it all under control to me." He sneered a half-smile, not holding back on the sarcasm in his tone. "Besides, we agreed that you’d go after the Shroud while I took out the Templars. That’s what I’m doing. You don’t need me. Can’t _Greenie_ go with you?” 

Evie’s mouth dropped open. “Can you even hear yourself?! This is what we’ve been fighting for! This is our first solid lead to finding the Piece of Eden! Stopping Starrick!” She stepped back, eyes wide, barely able to process what her twin was saying. “And no, Jacob, _Mr_ _Green_ can’t—”

“ _ALWAYS_ WITH THE PIECES OF EDEN, EVIE!” Jacob shouted her down.

“THEY’RE DANGEROUS OBJECTS, JACOB! ESPECIALLY IN TEMPLAR HANDS!” Evie matched her brother’s volume, flinging her hands in the air.

“MY GOD EVIE, YOU SOUND EXACTLY LIKE FATHER!”

“ _FATHER?!_ FATHER WOULD BE TURNING IN HIS _GRAVE_ IF HE COULD SEE YOU NOW!”

Evie hadn’t meant for it to come out like that. The words just seem to tumble forward from her lips before she could claw them back. She froze, the sickening burn of regret beginning to churn in her stomach at the realisation of what she’d just done.

The train fell silent and both assassins lowered their heads to the floor. Their father had only been dead a short while. It was still so raw for both of them.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t take it back and the words hit her brother like a knife to the heart, penetrating far deeper than Evie could ever imagine. Jacob had been desperately trying to push the thoughts of their father to the back of his mind since things had become blurred with Roth. He felt a growing sense of shame and confusion about what they were doing and yet still couldn’t fight the overwhelming need to go back to him.

It was a mess.

“Guys, that’s enough.” A gentle voice broke through the silence, and from behind, Evie felt a reassuring hand settle lightly on her shoulder.

Henry.

“Of course I can go with your sister, Jacob. It will be my pleasure. You go and do whatever it is you need to do.”

Jacob didn’t even look back. He spun on his heels and launched himself from the back of the train, rolling to his feet on the gravelled railroad, running as fast as his legs would carry him. He figured if he kept in constant motion, the burning behind his eyes wouldn’t have chance to form into tears.

Evie stood in silence, numb, watching her brother disappear into the distance.

“Come now, Evie. Let him go. Jacob will be fine.” Henry squeezed her hand. “We’re almost at the station. We can take a carriage to the mansion from there.”

\----

Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t the most pleasant of journeys to Trafalgar Square. The whole time Jacob could do nothing but replay the conversation with Evie back on the train. While he was sure she didn’t know about Roth, her words had struck a much deeper meaning for him. What _would_  their father think if he could see him now? No matter how he looked at it, there was no getting away from the fact that Jacob had growing feelings for another man _._ And not only that, this man was also a Templar _._ He couldn’t make it worse if he tried.

And it was overwhelming. Far beyond anything that he'd felt before—which scared the life out of him. Jacob wasn't completely inexperienced—he'd be the first to admit that he'd never been short of offers...from women, at least, though it was another thing entirely to follow those offers through, and something he rarely did. He went through the motions, but something was always missing. Or a least that’s how it had always played out until he’d met Roth.

Finally, Jacob arrived at his destination and perched upon the rooftop of the offices that looked down over Nelson’s Column in Trafalgar Square, across the road from the National Gallery where Roth was supposed to be that afternoon.

The square was crowded, which wasn’t unusual for that time of day. People often congregated in droves to buy bird seed to feed the flocks of pigeons that circled the square, or to hitch up their trousers or dresses and paddle in the two giant fountains in the centre, weather permitting. It was quite fascinating to watch how savvy (and fat) the pigeons had become —lazy even—not having to work to look for food anymore. Jacob watched them land and waddle up to people, fearlessly pecking at the food in their hands, the analogy of which wasn’t entirely lost on him either. Was that what he'd become in partnering with Roth—Lazy? 

At the beginning, maybe, but now?

Eventually, Jacob’s thoughts were broken by a carriage coming into view, pulling up at the steps of the gallery. He squinted to get a better look. It wasn’t Roth’s usual carriage, but….yes, it was the unmistakable Lewis at the reigns. Jacob grit his teeth. He really wasn't in the mood for him after the odd remark in the alleyway the other night.

As the carriage slowed, two well-dressed men appeared at the gallery entrance and began descending the steps. It was Roth and another man who was seeing him to his carriage. The poor bloke was scrambling apologetically all the way down the steps as they went. Roth seemed to have that effect on people, striking fear into everyone he met. Except Jacob, perhaps. Either he was yet to experience it fully or he just saw through it. The assassin was yet to decide.

Jacob tracked the carriage from the rooftops for a few streets until it came to a stop at a crossroads a mile or so to the west. As no-one was particularly around, he took the opportunity and skimmed down the side of the building he was on, jumped across onto the carriage roof, then leant down, opened the door and swung in next to Roth without even touching the ground.

Lewis was oblivious, until he heard his boss speak that is.

“Ha-ha! Jacob! How nice of you to drop in. I shall have to start locking my doors.” Roth smiled, wide and easy, welcoming his sudden visitor. He seemed in a good mood. Pleased to see Jacob at least.

Jacob smiled back and felt a wave of relief wash over him, warm and light in his chest. Being back in Roth’s presence this time soothed him and made the fight with Evie fade to the back of his mind somewhat. It had been a long two days since they'd last met and Jacob had missed the energy between them. And Roth had noticed Jacob’s absence too. Since the assassin had left he’d found his mind often drifting to thoughts of seeing and touching him again.

“What’s with the different carriage? Trying to stop me finding you?” Jacob only half joked, not sure where the insecurity was coming from.

“Darling, why would I want to avoid spending time with the most handsome creature ever to walk the streets of London?” Roth gushed. It was completely over the top, but at that moment it was just the affirmation Jacob needed, and although relieved to be receiving the compliment, his cheeks burnt with embarrassment all the same.

“You and I seem to have ruffled a few feathers, Jacob. My boys tell me that Starrick has increased Templar presence around the city, so I’m mixing things up a bit, starting with the carriage. We can’t be too careful, dear.”

“Do you think he knows it’s us?” Jacob asked, a jab of concern tightening in his stomach. This couldn't be over. Not yet.

“Of course not!” Roth rumbled, amused at the suggestion. “The wretched man can’t see anything past his own enormous ego!” Roth seemed more confident about that than Jacob. He gazed across and ran his hand protectively over Jacob’s knee, stroking his thumb along the edge, feeling the urge to pull him closer and devour him, and yet he resisted. Just.

The draw between them felt as strong as ever, and while Jacob's heart lurched, it was first time that he hadn’t flinched at Roth’s initial touch. Instead, he found himself willingly spreading his legs so that their knees were touching, the warmth of each other’s bodies radiating through the thin fabric of their trousers. Roth's smile widened, nodding his approval as he slid his hand higher to rest on the inside of Jacob's thigh.

Jacob's chest swelled. He was starting to get the hang of how this worked.

“So, are you ready for more action, my dear?” Roth purred, already leaning in.

Whether it was intended as an innuendo or not, Jacob didn't have time to ask— Roth was kissing him. And just like before, they seized hold of each other’s jackets as if to stop the other from taking too much control as they kissed. It wasn’t as violent as the night at the Alhambra. If anything, it was sloppy and awkward due to the tight angle in the carriage, but it was still rough as they both pushed and ground their lips together, both needing to get a fix from the growing addiction they had to each other.

As Roth began to make raw noises of pleasure into his mouth, Jacob’s mind once again flashed back to what had happened in the hallway two nights before. Locked together, Roth’s sly hands all over him, touching him and making him come. And Jacob wanted that again. All of it. He wanted it so much that it terrified him.

And Roth must have been thinking the same as he began tugging and pulling at Jacob's coat, urging him closer. Jacob broke off the kiss and shifted position, unable to hide how embarrassingly hard he was as he manoeuvred himself upwards and onto his knees. Roth had noticed it too, and was laughing at Jacob's eagerness as he dragged him across until Jacob was straddled over his legs. Then he guided Jacob down onto his lap and slid him forward, pressing them together with a filthy groan of pleasure and a guilty grin to match. It was exactly what Jacob needed and Roth knew it.

Roth kissed him again, slower this time. His hand slid inside Jacob’s coat and pulled Jacob’s full weight against him, deepening the kiss as he swept his tongue past Jacob’s eager lips. Jacob went with it, but somehow it still wasn’t enough. He pressed his hips into Roth’s, seeking friction, and Roth responded by sliding his hand beneath the waistband of Jacob’s trousers, and digging his fingers sharp into the plump, bare skin of Jacob’s behind.

“God, Roth.”

Jacob’s back arched, and he groaned at the sensation—a low, needy groan that had Roth squeezing harder, and left Jacob bucking his hips against Roth’s. Catching them both just right as Jacob moaned helplessly into Roth’s mouth, and Roth kissed him breathless.

With his free hand, Roth then reached up and was about to draw the small curtain at the window beside them, when, without any warning, Lewis pulled back on the reigns and braked sharply. There was the sound of panicked horses as the carriage lurched forward violently, and the next thing Jacob knew, he was crashing backwards into the seat behind him, and landing on the carriage floor in a heap.

“Apologies, Sir! A cat! In the road, Mr Roth!” Lewis called back to them, in a tone that sounded far from being sorry to Jacob's ears. 

Jacob scrambled to his feet and checked all of the windows. There was no cat. Anywhere…. _Lewis_.

“Cat my arse.” Jacob sneered under his breath and slumped back down next to Roth, the moment between them now ruined.

“Are you alright, darling?” Roth patted Jacob's leg in sympathy and gave him a consolation kiss on the cheek. Jacob nodded, trying to suppress the urge to open the front window and give Lewis a firm thump through the hatch.

The carriage rocked and pulled off again.

Roth sighed, adjusting himself in his trousers as he changed the subject. “Regrettably, time is against us and we must get on to our urgent business regarding our not so Grand Master.”

If Jacob was honest, he’d forgotten all about Starrick.

“Tell me, what do you know of Starrick’s Soothing Syrup, my dear?”

“Bloody awful stuff!” Jacob's face twisted in disgust. He'd only tried it once, (the unfortunate consequence of a lost bet with one of the Rooks) but it had still traumatised him enough to remember it vividly. The syrup was hideously vile. Like drinking liquid tar, only instead of being black, it was an insidious shade of luminous green, thick and heavy, and it had a repugnant taste that made you heave as it went down.

“Excellent! Then today you get to destroy the supply—at the source!" Roth declared, eagerly rubbing his hands together as he spoke. "The rightful sabotage of the distillery that manufactures the wretched stuff, as well as the disposal of its creator and distributor, a certain Templar by the name of Dr John Elliotson. A swift and sudden end to production, _permanently!_ ”

Roth produced a crumpled piece of paper from his suit pocket and handed it to Jacob.

“I am reliably informed that Elliotson will be partaking in a tour of the factory at 5pm sharp under strict orders from Starrick to increase its potency, as well as signing off plans to ship it further afield. An act that _must_ be stopped.”

Jacob frowned, barely able to conceal his disappointment. After their last outing, he was expecting something just as big and just as bold. Something exhilarating. This was positively boring in comparison.

“Is that it? Destroy some bad tasting medicine?”

“My dear boy, this syrup is Starrick’s secret weapon against the masses. It has no redeeming medicinal qualities at all. Addictive by design, it is Starrick’s way to keep the populace asleep—dumbed down like obedient sheep. It _numbs_ the senses, Jacob. Keeps people from questioning the suffocating hold that he has around each and every one of their necks. Without it, the people of London will gradually wake up and be free. _Free_ Jacob. Free from the control…as _I_ am.”

Jacob was beginning to wonder about Roth’s control.

“Besides, it’s a necessary step as our next strike could be the big one, possibly the defining blow. Very soon, thanks to your most extraordinary talents, my dear, Starrick will be no more!” Roth offered Jacob a smile, perhaps attempting to raise his spirits, but something about the finality of his words didn’t sit right with either of them. With Starrick gone and no reason to meet, would _they_ be no more too?

Both of them sat in silence for a few moments.

“So...are you coming with me again?” Jacob eventually asked, turning to Roth expectantly, hoping for a repeat of last time, but the older man shook his head.

“You don’t need me this time, dear. This one is easy for you. Besides, with the increase in Templars it would be risky to roll up together. More chance of me being recognised.” Roth’s hand was on Jacob's knee once again, stroking it in reassurance.

“And—” Jacob felt embarrassed even asking. “Shall I come round….y'know...after?”

Roth threw back his head and roared with laughter. Jacob wasn’t entirely sure why. It certainly wasn't the reaction he was hoping for.

“Jacob, my dear, you are free to do as you please!” He rumbled. But it wasn’t that Roth didn’t want him to go back to the Alhambra. Of course he did. He wanted nothing more than to take him back there and have his way with him right now, but both of them were beginning to realise that this wasn’t all about missions and rewards anymore. 

But still, Roth leant in, brushing his hand a little higher as he purred seductively under his breath. “Of course, it would be a shame not to celebrate such a massive setback for our poor friend, Mr Starrick.”

And that was all Jacob needed as he leapt grinning from the carriage and onto the rooftops.

\---

Jacob arrived at the factory at 4:30pm. Roth had been right. There had definitely been an increase in Blighter and Templar presence around Starrick’s industries. Once he'd taken out a few snipers, Jacob managed to go unnoticed and got himself into position on the factory roof next to an open skylight. Without much effort he took out the guards in the office on the top floor and got to work, releasing the valves on the massive distillery tanks and watching as their noxious, highly unstable gas poured into the factory, filling it with a putrid thick green smog.

Pulling his coat over his mouth to stop himself gagging, Jacob hovered back up by the skylight….waiting, until Dr Elliotson finally arrived and entered the factory, flanked by two of Starrick’s men. The assassin swiftly took his chance before they could notice something was wrong. He rope-launched to the building opposite, took out his revolver, aimed through the skylight and shot the top tank. Immediately, the whole thing exploded, causing a deafening chain reaction of blasts to rip through factory below as it erupted into flames, taking Dr Elliotson and Starrick’s men with it.

Ducking to avoid the showering debris, Jacob sped across the rooftops of the neighbouring factories, creating some distance until he was far enough away to safely turn back. And there he stood, watching the inferno blazing away on the horizon, plumes of smoke rising up and blackening the London skyline. The fiery end of Starrick's Soothing Syrup.

Another victory. Another nail in the Grand Master's coffin. And it should have felt great, but somehow, without Roth by his side, it didn’t.

\----

The sun had almost set by the time Jacob found himself back in his now familiar position, perched upon the rooftops in Leicester Square, gazing down on the Alhambra. He could just as well go home, and yet here he was again, staring at the long shadows cast around the grand theatre as the final throws of sunlight died away. He thought back to what Roth had said in the carriage and the possibility of their next attack being the last. ' _The defining blow'_ , as Roth had put it. While they had a mutual goal in harming Starrick it somehow made it easier for him to swallow what was happening between them. Explained it away—made it easier to justify the attraction. After all, without Starrick, they wouldn’t be doing this….would they?

But what if he wanted to?

After Lewis’s blatantly obvious ‘imaginary cat’ incident, Jacob didn’t feel much like knocking on the side door and facing him. Instead, he searched the perimeter of the theatre for an open window. Sure enough, toward the front of the building, a low light was burning and a small window open a little. The assassin vaulted across and silently slipped inside.

Roth was sat with his back to the window, reading through some newspapers piled on a small table beside him. The room was medium in size, with two armchairs set in front of a small, well-lit fire and a bed and bedside cabinet positioned on the far wall. A wardrobe and full length dressing mirror were tucked away into an alcove by the door, and the birdcage Jacob had seen before in Roth's office was sat on the dresser by the window, still as curious as ever.

Jacob didn’t instantly announce himself. Instead, he watched as Roth poured over his newspaper intently. The review section—a piece on the Alhambra’s latest production no less. Jacob couldn’t help but smile. Roth would like people to think he didn’t care, but Jacob was beginning to see through that now.

“Something wrong with my door, darling?” Roth asked without turning around. He’d smelt the unmistakable stench of Soothing Syrup the moment the assassin had entered.

“Nah, I just couldn’t face the knob you’ve got attached to it.” Jacob answered, a little too honestly, wondering if he’d gone too far, but then again, after today, he could think of far worse things to call Lewis than a 'knob'.

“That’s not very nice, Jacob. I’ve told you Lewis means no harm.” Roth raised an arm and motioned for Jacob to sit, taking in the splendour of the younger man as he passed by.

Jacob flopped down casually in the armchair opposite, in his usual, open legged way, knowing full well what the sight was likely doing to Roth.

“So what’s his story then?” Jacob asked, trying to mend his earlier slip up.

Roth thought for a moment, glancing back and forth between the newspaper and Jacob's welcoming legs, before folding the broadsheet away and deciding to entertain the young assassin’s curiosity.

“Lewis came to me with nothing more than the clothes he stood in. A pitiful state. He had come to London with hopes and dreams of becoming a renowned actor, but alas, his talents lay elsewhere and no one would employ him.”

Roth shook his head and looked down at his lap, showing a rare moment of emotion. It was the first time Jacob had seen him look so serious.

“He was a broken man, Jacob. He ended up homeless and destitute on the streets, begging for money to buy scraps of bread to survive. I took him in and gave him food and lodgings in exchange for him helping me with the renovations and the running of the theatre, as well as having him as my assistant and driver when situations demanded it.”

Jacob remained quiet, studying Roth attentively, not entirely sure what to make of the story.

“So, my dear," Roth glanced back up, face softening at the striking vision before him. "It's nothing like  _that._  Lewis is like family to me.”

“And me? What am I?” Jacob blurted. He'd certainly thought it, but hadn’t necessarily meant to say it out loud—but he needed to know. Was this all just about Starrick?

Roth sat back and smiled. He wasn’t blind, he’d sensed Jacob’s jealously towards Lewis from the start, but also picked up on what he was trying to say. He'd pondered the same thing himself. It was undeniable that there was something between them, but was the draw all because of Starrick? The thrill of taking him down together?

He rose from his chair and held out his hand to the assassin. Jacob hesitated for a moment before taking it, then let Roth gently pull him to his feet and lead him over to the bed. So far, it had always been Roth that made the first move and Jacob's stomach turned over at the thought of what might be coming next, but he didn't try to fight it. All he wanted was for Roth to touch him again—the sooner the better. Now.

And Roth had no intention of making him wait. With Jacob’s hand still in his, he stepped closer, hovering at his assassin’s ear to answer his question. “Well, darling,” he purred, his warm breath ghosting lightly across Jacob’s cheek. “That still remains to be seen.”

And then Roth kissed him, and for the first time neither of them fought against the surge of passion that rose between them. Instead, they rode with it and gently pushed and pulled and kissed and clawed at each other’s bodies. In that moment, they seemed to need something from each other—some sort of affirmation of what this all meant. They were so similar. They were each other’s pleasure, while bringing out each other’s pain and in their own screwed up way, they completed each other. 

Different sides of the very same coin, caught up in a dangerous liaison.

They stood entangled, tongues rolling and exploring each other’s mouths while their hands became more frantic. Roth's travelled and stroked through Jacob's hair, while Jacob's impatiently tugged in Roth's shirt and rocked them together until he started to ache for Roth to touch him.

Jacob could feel that Roth was just as hard as he was against his thigh. Slowly, he began to edge his hands down towards the older man’s belt, sliding his palm against Roth’s groin and pressing in a little. He still needed to prove that he could please Roth too. To make whatever this was mean something. But just like last time, Roth froze and immediately stopped him, gently bringing Jacob's hands back up and onto his chest.

“Soon, Jacob.”

Jacob didn’t have time to protest. Roth kissed him again, inching him backwards towards the bed as he tugged lightly at Jacob’s heavy coat.

“Give me some room to work with, darling.” His voice buzzed against Jacob’s neck, teeth grazing the skin and adding to the bruises he'd already left there.

Jacob understood and quickly unbuckled his gauntlet and weapon belt, letting them clatter to the floor, very shortly followed by his coat. He figured that if they were going to kill each other, they would have done it by now— and suddenly it dawned on him that for the first time in his whole life, he actually trusted someone. He trusted _Maxwell Roth._

And Roth noticed it too. He gently lowered Jacob backwards to sit on the edge of the bed, then took his own gun out from its holster. Opening the cylinder, he emptied the bullets, one by one, into his hand, then placed the firearm down on the bedside table in a show of mutual vulnerability. And that was the moment Roth fully admitted to himself that he cared for Jacob. _Really_ cared for him. If it had been any other man in front of him, he'd be balls deep by now and wouldn’t be concerned if his conquest was enjoying himself or not. But with Jacob, it was different. Jacob made him _feel_ something, and all the years he’d spent training himself to be cold and detached were being turned on their head by the assassin sat before him.

Roth slipped his own jacket off and tossed it on the bed beside them, then he sank to his knees and leant back in to kiss his assassin, slowly and deeply, and with a softness that surprised them both, trying to convey with his lips what he couldn’t express with his words. He cupped Jacob’s face, stroking his thumbs across the stubble that grazed his perfect jawline, then slowly moved down and began unbuttoning Jacob’s shirt, pressing his lips down onto his bare chest, each kiss taking a little bit more of Jacob’s pain away than the last.

And the more he kissed him, the more Jacob started to lose it. Roth on him again, touching him, kissing him, being gentle and showing him affection. He’d never craved or needed someone so much in his life. It was overwhelming. He closed his eyes and dug his fingers into Roth's shoulders, holding tight against the shivers and ripples that repeatedly rose up from his touch.

Roth took his time, leaving no part of his assassin unclaimed, until he finally reached Jacob's waist and unbuckled the younger man's belt, hitching his trousers down to his knees, freeing him in all his glory. He gently nudged Jacob back onto his elbows, then leant down and resumed kissing his legs, slowly trailing upwards along the inside of his assassin's perfectly toned thighs.

Jacob shuddered. He knew what was coming. He knew he shouldn't want it, but he did.  _So damn much._ So much that it hurt _._ Feeling flushed and exposed and not knowing where to look, he rolled his head back onto his shoulders and gripped down on the bed sheets, twisting them between his fingers when the shock and sudden warm sensation of Roth taking him into his mouth took Jacob's breath from him.

_“R-Roth!”_

Roth placed both hands on Jacob’s hips and began to sink down on him. He went slowly at first, lightly mouthing around the tip to give Jacob time to adjust before he took him deeper into his throat. Then Roth closed his lips around Jacob and rolled them lower, watching Jacob's reaction as his assassin arched his back and groaned in pleasure above him. And Roth was enjoying it too. He hummed back moans of appreciation that buzzed and vibrated onto Jacob, heightening the sensation around his tight lips. Roth started bobbing his head, going down fast and drawing up slow, swirling his sly tongue around Jacob’s length and driving him wild, pushing and dragging along the underside, leaving his assassin whimpering and gripping down harder on the bed. Jacob was left in no doubt that Roth had done this before.

Roth pulled off for a moment, running his hand up onto Jacob's chest. “Jacob, let me look at you.”

But Jacob didn’t want to look. He didn’t want to admit to himself that this was happening again, or that he was enjoying it, but Roth was still waiting, deep eyes gazing up at him. Jacob swallowed and leant back up on his elbows, looking down at Roth as he effortlessly took him back into his mouth again, making long, fluid motions, this time keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Jacob's while he caressed his thighs in time with his movement, the mattress creaking gently beneath them as they rocked.

But it was too much for Jacob. Too intimate, too intense and too real. He couldn't breathe. He shouldn't be doing this. What if someone found out? Thoughts of his father and the argument with Evie that morning started to tumble back into his mind as he fought desperately to keep them back. He screwed his eyes shut, crying out in pain at the conflicting mess in his head.

Roth noticed and broke off again. He rose on his knees and cupped the back of Jacob’s head, the pads of his fingers stroking gentle circles along the nape of his neck. "Jacob, _look_ at me."

Jacob grimaced, but peeled open his eyes. Roth was gazing at him, concerned, fingers still stroking, palms cradling Jacob's head, trying to bring him back to the moment. He was being so gentle again. So soft and so tender. And Jacob didn’t know how to handle it.

“Alright, darling?”

Jacob nodded and smiled at him weakly. In truth, he didn’t know how else to reply. His head swam with thought after contradicting thought—but as fucked-up as he felt, he didn’t want Roth to stop. As shameful as it was for him to acknowledge, Jacob wanted this. He needed this. And then he realised he needed Roth.

He reached out, and pulled the older man closer to kiss him, and after a nod of understanding, Roth willingly obliged. Smiling back, Roth dipped forward and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of Jacob’s mouth, then he sank back onto his knees and took him again—being much less gentle this time as he ruthlessly picked up the pace and increased the pressure of his lips.

And it worked. Jacob let himself go and gave in to the sensation. The tight warmth of Roth's mouth, the steadiness of his touch. He fell back into a moan, and felt the conflict in him fading, drowned out by the quickening waves of his orgasm that began to build and pulse up to reach its peak. He knew he wasn’t going to last much longer, and Jacob whimpered and reached out to take hold of Roth’s hair. But to his surprise, Roth clutched his hand and linked their fingers together, holding him steady as Jacob groaned and shuddered upwards, and came hard into Roth’s mouth and throat.

_"Roth-ahh!"_

Roth kept going gently, riding with Jacob through his last few waves, then he sat back on his heels and swallowed without effort, and kissed each of Jacob’s thighs in turn.

“Darling—y-you—” He rasped, red faced and breathless.

But Jacob didn't want or need another compliment. All he wanted and needed in that moment was Roth. Without saying a word, Jacob gripped hold of Roth’s shirt collar, and dragged him up off his knees, pulling him on top of him on the bed.

Roth held him tight as they kissed, lazy and slow on the messed up bedsheets. And Jacob tasted himself on Roth's tongue as he closed his eyes and a wave of exhaustion hit him.

\-----

It was a while before either of them stirred. They lay together on the bed, drifting in and out of easy sleep, Jacob facing outwards with Roth’s arms cupped around him, legs entangled. Neither of them had spoken about what just happened to Jacob—and Jacob wasn’t even sure he’d be able to explain it if Roth had asked.

“Sooo,” Jacob eventually broke the silence. “Aren’t you going to ask me how I got on at the factory?” He asked, pretending to sound hurt that they’d not talked about it, but in truth, it had been quite deliberate that neither of them had. 

Roth smirked into Jacob's hair. “I didn’t need to, darling. I heard your explosive efforts all the way from here.”

Both of them thundered with laughter, but the more Jacob began to think about it, the more it dawned on him that perhaps he could've found a more discreet way of stopping the syrup production—and unfortunately, with that thought he was reminded of Evie again.

Jacob reluctantly slid out of Roth's arms and sat upright, fastening his trousers and buttoning his shirt. He had to leave soon. The train would be passing through the Strand shortly.

“So what’s next?” Jacob didn’t really want to ask, but if Roth and the whole of London heard the explosion, he could bet that Starrick was aware of his ‘visit’ to his factory by now. He scooted to the edge of the bed and pulled on his boots, only for Roth’s arm to wrap around his waist and drag him back.

“Whatever you want, my dear." Roth purred, suggestive, and pressed a light kiss to the nape of Jacob's neck. “I’m sure we could think of something.”

Jacob laughed and wriggled free, flushing a little at the suggestion as he stood. He turned and pulled on his coat, lifting a playful eyebrow at the older man as he buckled his gauntlet back over his sleeve.

“With _Starrick_?”

“Ah! Of course. Let him stew for a few days. We don’t want to become predictable.” Roth replied, a broad grin on his lips as he rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. “But do come by and see me again.”

And Jacob was beaming to himself as he left through the window and into the night. That was exactly the answer he'd hoped for.

If only it could stay like this forever.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed taking Jacob to Trafalgar Square in this chapter...it took me back to visiting there as a child and feeding the pigeons. *Sighs* Happy times :)
> 
> As always, if you'd like to leave me feedback, it's very gratefully received and helps me improve. :) As I warn on every chapter, this is my first ever piece so I’m still settling in to a writing style and appreciate your thoughts xx


	7. No Turning Back (E)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jacob finds himself at the Alhambra again after another row with Evie, while Lewis's patience is pushed to a new level.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was tough, and I'm still not sure I like it, but it gels better with what happens in the next few chapters.
> 
> PS- I'm so sorry Lewis!
> 
> Thanks for reading :)

** Chapter 7: No Turning Back (E)  **

“Maxwell Roth.”

A rare and unnerving smile bloomed on the Grand Master’s lips as he sat at his desk, fingers pressed into a pyramid as he pieced everything together.

“Crawford?” Lucy didn’t understand. What was there to smile about? Starrick had just found out that one of his longstanding allies had betrayed him. Why wasn’t he livid like she was? Why wasn’t he on his feet, shouting and demanding answers? Why did he look so…well, calm?

“It would seem that Mr Roth is up to his old tricks again.” Starrick glanced over to her, both eyebrows raised, clearly entertained by the situation.

Lucy glowered back, irritated—making it quite clear that she didn’t share his amusement. She’d spent the best part of the day preparing herself for him to explode when the name was finally dragged out of the Blighter. This was far from the reaction she was expecting from him.

“Then he shall not live to see the sun rise. I will make sure of it.” She snarled. Perhaps this was an opportunity to redeem herself. Yes, she’d so far failed to kill the Frye twins, but she _would_ take care of Roth. Then she would resume her efforts on the weakened assassins, until finally, _finally_ she and Starrick would be free to retrieve the Shroud and take back London. Together.

Starrick shook his head slowly, his smile fading. “That won’t be necessary Miss Thorne, though I do admire your loyalty. Your enthusiasm is most welcome.”

He leant back in his chair and picked up the ornate glass paperweight from his desk, turning it over in his fingers, watching as the light danced and streaked across the surface as he did so.

“It may surprise you to learn that this is not the first time Roth has betrayed me or betrayed the Order.” The Grand Master continued to gaze at the paperweight, preoccupied by the light show he was creating in his hands.

Lucy's face crumpled into an unbecoming scowl. She took another step toward him and placed her hands down on his desk, taking a firmer tone as she spoke, hoping to talk some sense into him.

“With all due respect, Crawford, if Roth has betrayed before then surely he cannot be trusted. Surely he should be….well..." She dragged a finger across her throat. " _Cut loose?”_

“Oh, he will die, Lucy.” Starrick carefully placed the paperweight back in its rightful place and glanced up, his cold, pale eyes piercing through her like knives. “But I want to see him suffer for what he’s done first.”

He drew a sharp intake of breath, then rose from his chair and stepped towards the window, glancing east to the faint outline of the Alhambra, peaking above the smog on the horizon.

“Roth's playing games. Given in to his….weakness. Found a new plaything. A new obsession—the assassin.” The Grand Master placed his arms behind his back, fingers curling into tense fists to match the darkening state of his mind. His amusement was clearly over.

“It’s time I took his new toy away. And I plan to watch the pain burn in his eyes as I do so. And when I’m finally satisfied that I have brought him to his knees to meet with the deepest depth of his despair—" Starrick paused and clenched his fists even tighter. “—then I will kill the man myself.”

Lucy’s eyes ignited and a sickening grin broke across her face. _Finally_ , she had the reaction she was waiting for. She nodded eagerly to her Master as he turned back around to face her.

“Miss Thorne, it would seem that a visit with Lewis is in order.”

\-----

Although he’d been awake for some time, Jacob lay still in the front carriage of the train. He pulled his hat down over his face to block out the light pouring through the windows as the train gently swayed and bounced along as it travelled—the soft, rhythmic sound the wheels made as they passed over the joints in the tracks floating into his awareness every so often.

It was nearing midday but Jacob was in no rush to get up. He lay there, replaying the events from the night before over and over in his mind. If he closed his eyes he could still feel Roth’s hands all over his body, kissing and touching him in ways he’d never been kissed or touched before. And it felt so good. But he still couldn’t shake the feeling that it was wrong, that maybe he shouldn’t keep going back. But there was an awful ache in his chest whenever he was away from Roth lately. A heaviness that pulled and tugged constantly in the background until he was back with him again. It was like he needed to be with Roth to feel okay. Roth made everything feel better somehow.

A few carriages down, Jacob could hear Henry and his sister discussing what they’d found at the Kenway mansion and vague talk of some kind of key that opened a vault. He tried to listen, but his mind still wouldn’t focus. Images of Roth dipping up and down between his legs were vying for his attention, and judging by the growing bulge in his trousers, Roth was winning. He rolled onto his front to save himself the embarrassment of anyone seeing, but unfortunately for him, his private movie was abruptly ended when he caught his name being mentioned further down the train.

“It _had_ to be Jacob.” Evie was attempting to whisper, but the anger in her voice was causing her to fail miserably. “Who else would be so down right irresponsible to blow up something as dangerous as a factory full of highly toxic, and highly flammable substances?! People could have been killed, Henry! _Innocents!”_

Shit, she knew about the factory. _Of course_ she bloody knew. Jacob sat up to listen closer.

“Evie, we don’t yet know for sure that it was him. And even if it was Jacob, I’m certain he would’ve checked that it was safe to proceed before he went ahead. Your father taught him well.” Henry was clearly trying his best to reason with her, not that it was helping.

Jacob’s heart sank. This was so typical of Evie, always so eager to assume the worse in him. Of course he’d checked it was safe. What did she take him for? He leant closer to the door, only to catch Evie sighing heavily.

“I’m just so tired of having to clean up after his mistakes, Henry.”

 _Mistakes?_ Jacob grit his teeth at the word. He and Roth had accomplished more in the last two weeks than Evie had the whole time they’d been in London. All she’d done was read books, theorise and visit a mansion. Part of him wanted to march down the train and tell her all about Roth and what they’d achieved together, but nothing he did was ever going to be good enough in his sister’s eyes. If it wasn’t their father’s way, then she didn’t want to know. Why couldn’t she be more open minded?

Like Roth _._

He’d heard enough. Reaching for his coat beside him, Jacob stood silently and slipped towards the door to leave, just as a third voice chimed in.

“Let’s try and look at this another way, guys. Regardless of where Jacob is getting his leads from, the end of Starrick’s Soothing Syrup can only be a good thing for our cause.” It was Ned, also attempting to reason with her. “Do you want me to have a word with him, Evie?”

Good old Ned, at least someone was sticking up for him, but Jacob was in no mood to talk. He didn’t even wait to hear Evie’s reply as he leapt off the train, skimmed down the side of the railway bridge and disappeared into the bustling market street below.

He wasn’t sure where he was heading, but his feet seemed to be taking him in a familiar direction.

\---

“I trust your lunch was to your liking, Sir?” Lewis picked up the tray of half eaten food off the piano. He felt a little dejected. It had taken him the best part of the morning to lovingly prepare the meal. Roth had barely eaten a mouthful.

“Yes, fine Lewis.” Roth didn’t even look up. He was sat on stage at the grand piano, pouring over page after page of sheet music, trying to find something suitable for the upcoming show. He needed a strong, bold piece for the lead actor to sing in the finale, but as of yet, nothing was taking his fancy as he played through various snippets and flung the rejected pages to the floor. He really should have sorted the music out days ago, but Jacob had been more than a little distracting to him lately and he’d fallen behind, as he had with most things—but what a wonderful distraction Jacob Frye was, he mused.

Something else was bothering him though. That very morning, three more actors had pulled out of the show at the last minute. That was five in total now. He was going to need understudies for his understudies if it carried on like this. Something was going on. It was as if someone had got to them. Scared them off maybe..

“And the wine, Sir?” Lewis glanced at the freshly poured glass further along the piano. Roth had barely touched that either. “A French vintage, Mr Roth. I took the liberty of procuring a case of it from the new import merchant down on Regent Street. I know how much you enjoy that particular wine, Sir.”

In all honesty, it hadn’t been quite that simple. Lewis had been on a waiting list with the stockist for months. The wine was ridiculously expensive and he had to constantly visit the shop to drop in down payments (from his own pocket) to secure his order, as well as almost breaking his back when trying to carry the case to the carriage when the shipment finally came in yesterday evening….but of course, nothing was too much trouble for his boss, for Maxwell.

Roth didn’t answer, much too absorbed in what he was doing. He continued to audition pieces on the piano, trying to sing along in his own harrowing way. While he was a good enough actor and an excellent compère and host, Roth was definitely _not_ a singer —his voice splintering into a thousand shards of glass as it scratched and scraped along with the melody. You could say that Maxwell Roth had a singing voice that would more likely clear a theatre than fill seats…

“Can I get you anything else, Mr Roth?” Lewis tried again to engage his boss, longing for him to look up and acknowledge him. “Perhaps I could help with the music selection, Sir?” Lewis often did help, or at least he did before Jacob arrived on the scene and Roth became preoccupied. 

“No thank you Lewis, that will be all.” Roth flung another reject to the floor, still not looking up.

“As you wish, Sir.” Lewis answered his boss quietly, the rejection clearly showing in his voice, not that Roth noticed.

The defeated man dropped his shoulders and turned to leave, but just as he took a step forward, a loud thud came from the shadows backstage. Roth immediately stopped playing and readied his hand over his gun. It may have been a while since he was last in the boxing ring, but his senses were still as sharp as ever, honed to perfection.

There was another heavy thud, the scrape of some footsteps, and then the backstage door swung open.

“What _is_ that awful wailing noise?! Do you have a stomach ache? Are you sick?” Jacob appeared in the doorway, grinning from ear to ear as he tried to make light of Roth’s attempt at singing. He hadn't exactly planned to come back to the Alhambra. There was no need to. No Starrick based outing, no planned sabotages, but…here he was again. About as far away from the train as possible. He’d found an open window again to avoid Lewis, not expecting him to be stood there with Roth. _Damn it._

“Ha-haa! Jacob, my dear!” Roth bounced to his feet, all of a sudden animated, arms outstretched and happy to see him. Jacob swaggered across the stage and Roth reached out to embrace him.

 _“We both know I’m as sick as they come, darling.”_ Roth growled into Jacob's ear and squeezed his behind, provoking a knowing smirk from both men. A spark of excitement shot up Jacob’s spine at Roth’s touch. God, it felt so good to be back.

Lewis watched on in bewilderment, dumbstruck at Roth’s sudden change in mood. A pang of jealousy spiked in his stomach. 

“You can go now, Lewis.” Roth waved his hand toward the door. But no sooner had he done so, Jacob dived over the piano and snatched Roth’s glass of wine before Lewis could take it away. He downed it in one and regretted it instantly.

“ _Ugh!_ God, that’s sour!” Jacob spluttered, feeling the wine sting and grip at his taste buds as he swallowed. He grimaced, and wiped his mouth on his coat sleeve to rid the excess from his burning lips.

Roth thundered with laughter at the horror on Jacob’s face. Even in distress, his assassin was still a picture of beauty to him. He couldn’t take his eyes off him.

Lewis glared at Jacob, and then at the empty glass, hate boiling up from his stomach. Did he really just do that? Take the wine? _Maxwell’s_ wine? The wine he had gone to so much effort over?

Lewis took the empty glass and placed it on the tray, nodding across to his boss. “Very good, Mr Roth,” he forced through gritted teeth as he turned to leave, wanting nothing more than to swiftly introduce the solid silver serving tray in his hand to the crown of Jacob’s head, as hard as he possibly could.

Roth sat back down at the piano, beaming up at Jacob. He was looking very fine today, very fine indeed. Perhaps a little flushed and out of breath, probably from all that effort to climb in through his window. Probably. It certainly suited him. So handsome. So dashing.

Jacob leant his elbows on the piano lid and cleared his still-burning throat, trying to appear more comfortable than he truly was. He deliberately kept his eyes fixed on the auditorium while he composed himself. The first few minutes with Roth were always a bit disorientating. Overwhelming even—and given what had happened the night before, today was proving no different.

“Back to see me so soon, darling?” Roth eventually spoke, his eye’s twinkling when Jacob finally turned to look at him. In reality, Roth hadn't taken his eyes off him from the moment he’d walked in, shamelessly drinking in every piece of his striking appearance. He could happily gaze at the assassin all day, and quite possibly all night too. Jacob Frye was a work of art—he really couldn’t help himself.

Jacob wasn’t sure how to answer. Maybe it was too soon. He glanced down at the piano and chewed on the inside of his cheek, hoping to hide the flush of heat creeping across his face, but Roth noticed, of course.

Contrary to what Jacob thought, the older man missed nothing. Roth still delighted in how he could make Jacob blush just by merely talking to him. And it was all quite deliberate. He’d never seen anyone so starved of love and attention before, but though clearly inexperienced, Jacob wasn’t as innocent as he looked. The boy was back at his door again, this time with no reason to be and that spoke volumes....or at least it was enough to finally prove to Roth what they'd both been wondering. Jacob was in this for more than just taking down Starrick. Jacob Frye was here because of _him_.

“Roth…I—”

“Don’t look so worried, Jacob, I’m teasing. And _please_ , call me Maxwell, darling. I think we’re well past the formalities now. Don’t you?” Roth cocked an eyebrow and glanced Jacob up and down, practically undressing him with his eyes.

This time Jacob didn't look away. Instead, he held Roth's gaze, and for a few short moments, neither of them spoke. Intrigued by each other. For all intents and purposes, it had been business as usual between them— Roth with his compliments and Jacob with his inability to take them.  Neither of them seemed to want to acknowledge what had happened the night before—how gentle Roth had been when Jacob faltered and how vulnerable they’d allowed themselves be with each other. It was like it hadn’t happened. And yet, something felt different between them.

Eventually, Jacob straightened, rubbing the back of his neck as he changed the subject.

“What’s all this about then?” He nodded to the pile of sheet music strewn all around the piano.

“This?” Roth played a few bars, then flung another rejected page behind him. “A song for the show, dear. I need to find something bold for my lead actor—a big finish as it were. But they’re all so terribly boring, Jacob. No _passion_. No _feeling_.”

“So you're not going to serenade me then?” Jacob raised a cheeky eyebrow, provoking a mischievous, filthy grin from Roth that made his heart flip over in his chest—something that was happening with alarming frequency these days.

It was odd seeing this side of Roth. Odd, but totally absorbing to watch him play, his skilled fingers travelling effortlessly over the keys, just like they'd travelled over Jacob’s chest the night before. And it seemed to come so naturally to him, but then again, Roth was so comfortable in his skin that he made everything look natural and easy.

“Oh, I would, my dear, but there’s nothing here as beautiful as you, Jacob.” Roth tossed the remaining pages to the floor and turned his full attention to his assassin, his interest piqued by the sight of Jacob unbuttoning his coat.

Jacob smirked at the compliment but looked the other way all the same, heat burning in his cheeks once again. _Maxwell Roth – forever the flatterer._

“I mean it, darling. Your mere presence is like a tonic to me.” Roth motioned him closer. “I’d go as far as saying that you bring out the best in me. I’m a very bad man, Jacob. I’ve done some terrible things.” It was true, he really had. Roth may have been many things, but he wasn’t a liar.

“Well, I’m no angel myself.” Jacob inched along the piano until he was nearer the end. Maybe the wine had finally hit him, or maybe it was all the compliments, but he noticed that he was finally starting to feel his body relax. He slid forward some more and leant his head on his hand, feeling the draw starting to pull him in. Like magnets, they seemed unable to stop themselves from coming back together. An unstoppable force. Inevitable.

“Two sides of the same coin perhaps, with you being the better side, of course.” Roth took Jacob's free hand and kissed his knuckle, lingering long enough for Jacob’s hand, then arm, then whole body to ignite.

Jacob opted to keep talking. It was easier than acknowledging how short his breath had become now that they were so close. “Come now, surely you weren't always bad?” He smiled, intrigued, his eyes hazy as they drew to Roth's lips. Remembering how good they'd felt when Roth had wrapped them around his cock the night before.

Roth seemed lost in thought for a moment, thinking back through his life, his youth. “No, not always Jacob, but life is so very hard. It bends you and it breaks you—but ultimately, it _makes_ you, as I’m sure you well know.” Jacob nodded. He did know. Losing his parents, his turbulent relationship with his sister..

“So tell me something about you then.” Jacob pushed him again gently, feeling a growing need to know more about the man, but not entirely sure how much longer he'd tolerate his prying.

But Roth continued to smile up at him, equal part curious as he was entertained by the sincerity in Jacob's face. And if he was honest, it was the first time someone had been interested enough to ask.

“Come here, darling.” Roth waved him to the front of the piano to where he was sat on the stool. Jacob willingly obliged and walked around, unceremoniously plonking himself down on the piano keybed between Roth’s legs and sounding an awful cacophony of clashing notes with his rear end in the process.

“Ha- haa! See, you make such beautiful music, my dear. I should write that down.” Roth slipped his hands inside Jacob’s coat and around onto his back, stroking and squeezing at his muscles. He’d missed the feeling of Jacob’s warmth in his hands just as much as Jacob had missed Roth’s fingers roaming all over his body. They both sighed, feeling the relief of coming back together.

“What do you want to know?”

There was so much Jacob wanted to ask, but his mind was already slowing, lost in the sensation of Roth’s hands on him at last. Relieved. Reassured. Ready.

“What’s with the baby crow in the cage?” Jacob nodded towards the table in the centre of the stage where the now familiar birdcage was placed.

“He is beautiful, isn’t he?” Roth gazed across at the bird lovingly, still massaging his assassin.

Jacob shrugged. He didn’t really get the appeal.

Roth had captured the young bird on the roof of the Alhambra not long after he caught his first glimpse of Jacob and his Rooks from afar, but somehow, he didn’t see the connection between the two events. Instead, he chose to believe that the cage represented Starrick, and the bird, London.

“He’s a metaphor, Jacob. A reflection on life. A caged bird is unable to enjoy the freedom of other birds. So long as he is caged, he will not reach his true potential.” Jacob was noticing that Roth used that word an awful lot. _Freedom_. But why cage a bird just to prove a point?

Roth was becoming preoccupied by their proximity. He let his head fall forward on Jacob’s chest, and breathed in the faint smell of smoke from the train as it mixed with the aroma of leather and just a hint of sweat from the effort the assassin had taken to journey to the Alhambra. It was raw and it was intoxicating, and it sent a sudden surge of desire through the older man that he struggled to suppress. He brought his hands around and undid the bottom two buttons of Jacob’s shirt so that he could kiss the bare skin around his navel, tracing across it with his tongue, taking in the sweet taste of his assassin’s skin.

Jacob raked his fingers through Roth's hair and went to ask another question, but the sensation of Roth’s soft lips finally on him stopped him in his tracks and his breath caught instead. His skin was tingling, and he shivered as Roth’s moustache brushed against his bare chest and set the hairs on the back of Jacob’s neck creeping to attention—much like the stirring in his groin. If Roth was trying to distract him and change the subject, it was definitely working, and Jacob felt his blood thrumming and rushing south, throbbing and aching between his legs.

And Roth had certainly noticed it too, and he hummed his approval as he pressed a line of light, lingering kisses along the edge of the growing bulge in Jacob’s trousers.

Jacob swallowed and forced himself to focus. He wasn’t done asking questions yet. While he was asking questions, he could avoid thinking about what he was doing there again. Why he’d come back to the Alhambra without a reason. Which unfortunately had the opposite effect and brought the Grand Master straight back into his mind. Front and centre.

“So, why do you hate Starrick so much? What changed?” It seemed as good a time as any to ask.

Roth frowned a little at the mention of Starrick's name, but entertained his assassin's question all the same. “I can assure you that the feeling is mutual, Jacob. We go back a long way, Starrick and I, but there's some very bad blood between us. Very bad indeed.” He brought his attention back to Jacob's chest and slid his tongue along the rim of his trousers, leaving a warm, wet trail as he licked and traced circles along the top of Jacob's belt.

“The man is dreadful." Roth spoke between kisses. "He required my services to set up his gangs. Once I’d done that, he inducted me into the Order where he could keep an eye on me. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, as they say. With the money he gave me, I purchased my beloved Alhambra theatre.”

Roth leant back for a moment and removed his waistcoat, then resumed his position and unbuttoned Jacob’s trousers. He slowly edged them open, then dipped back in and grazed his teeth across Jacob's hip bone, kissing and nipping at the smooth skin he found there. Then he slid lower still, and dipped his tongue past the rim of Jacob’s underwear, teasing him, relishing at seeing his assassin growing harder by the second.

“Why didn’t you just....turn him.....down?”  Jacob shuddered again. He dug his fingers into Roth’s shoulders, twitching as pulses of excitement repeatedly rose up from where Roth was leaving his mark. Already, Jacob was desperate. Desperate for Roth, desperate for more of his touch.  Desperate for what might be coming next. And he wasn't sure how much longer he could stand it.

“He would've sought me out in the end, darling. He has contacts everywhere and doesn’t take kindly to being refused. But I’m bored with it, Jacob. Bored with his control. You can only suppress people for so long before they rise up against it. The man is terrible. It’s time his reign came to an end.”

Roth slid his fingers beneath the waistband of Jacob's underwear and inched it down, just enough to close his mouth around the top of him, and swirl his sly tongue around Jacob's already glistening tip. He glanced up from under his eyebrows, watching in delight as Jacob grit his teeth and rolled back his head, groaning when Roth sank down a little deeper and lightly sucked when he drew back up.

_“Oh God—"_

Roth smirked and took Jacob into his mouth again. He drew in his cheeks and sank deeper this time, making it quite clear that he’d had enough questions, especially ones about Crawford Starrick. He had much more enjoyable things on his mind, and judging by the wild, untamed look in Jacob's eyes the feeling was mutual.

 _"Roth—Maxwell—fuck!”_  

Jacob snapped. He lunged forward and dug his fingers into Roth’s forearms, dragging him up off the piano stool and onto his feet. He gripped a fistful of Roth’s hair and yanked him closer to kiss him, but Roth stiffened his back and stopped short, letting his lips brush against Jacob’s but not quite connecting. Grinning and teasing him. The sly bastard.

“Anyway, that's enough about him, Jacob.” Roth murmured, lips hovering over Jacob's. His hands dragged over Jacob's thighs, and he hitched his assassin’s legs up so that they were perched either side of him on the piano stool. “Starrick is soon to be no more, and it would seem that something far more stimulating has taken my interest these days.”

Roth closed the gap and kissed him. The kiss was deep and intense and hurried, and their teeth bumped together as Jacob ground back against him, his hands fisting in Roth's shirt, pulling at the fabric until he yanked it open. Roth followed Jacob's lead, laughing against his assassin's lips as his fingers felt for Jacob's remaining shirt buttons, ripping open the ones he couldn't manage, sending them showering and clinking to the floor all around the piano. Roth leant Jacob backwards onto the music rest then, uncomfortable, and even a little painful, but easy for Jacob to ignore once Roth filled his vision again and pressed their warm, bare chests together. Kissing him roughly, then softly, then roughly again while they both rode the now familiar wave of sexual tension that soared up inside of them.

Both of them were fevered, both of them desperate, barely able to control themselves. Jacob pulled Roth closer, and Roth's hands started meandering down, pinching and pulling at Jacob's chest and sides, dragging his thumbs and leaving red marks, until he finally reached between his assassin's legs, curled his long fingers around him and—

“Max, no, _wait—“_ Jacob broke off. He pushed Roth back and immediately began fumbling at the buttons on Roth's straining trousers. He wasn't going to let Roth block him this time. Neither of them needed to prove what this was about anymore. They both wanted this. And after resisting him all the other times, the initial shock on Roth's face faded into understanding, and he finally gave in to his assassin. He pushed Jacob’s hand away from his belt and undid it for him, freeing himself to allow Jacob to take hold of him for the very first time.

And when Jacob finally did, it almost blew Roth's mind.

Roth was so used to being in control of these situations, having his way without getting attached—only allowing himself pleasure if he was taking it all for himself. Life was easier that way. No love lost, nothing to lose. And yet here he was, losing himself in the sensation of his assassin finally touching him. Watching Jacob’s greedy expression as he pumped his fist harder. So eager, so willing, frantically trying to please him. But somehow, it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. Roth had waited so long. He needed to feel more of him. _All_ of him.

“Jacob—“ He caught Jacob's wrist and stopped him, pulling his hand away. Jacob frowned up at him, flushed and confused, but watched on as Roth reached down and took hold of Jacob's neglected length and pressed it against his own, wrapping his hand, and then Jacob's hand around them tightly to create one large fist. Then with a long, stuttered growl, Roth pushed forward into their combined hands, rubbing them together perfectly. He watched as Jacob’s mouth dropped open when he did it again. And again. And then again. Thrusting harder, then faster, with just enough friction to drive them wild, and just enough slick between them to get a rhythm going.

 _"Oh God, Max—"_ Jacob whimpered and bit down on his lip, trying not to come there and then, but the way that Roth was looking at him—so hungry, so filled with lust as he rocked into him— he was already starting to lose it. He dug the fingernails of his free hand into Roth’s back, clawing at him as he started to shudder, the heat already coiling in his groin and becoming more urgent.

Roth kept thrusting hard, rolling his hips and pumping their fists, watching Jacob's every reaction. Watching him gasping, watching his face, glistening and red, his eyes so dark and wide and totally taken over with want for him. And Roth was no better, addicted. Overcome by the drug that was Jacob Frye, finally letting himself be with him fully, completely in awe of every part of the younger man beneath him.

“ _Beautiful_ , Jacob.” Roth pulled him in closer and pressed their foreheads together, increasing the friction between their sweat soaked chests, clenching his teeth as he started to feel his own pleasure surging and pulsing upwards.

Jacob couldn't speak. Couldn't answer. Instead, he gripped Roth tighter, and hooked his legs around Roth’s thighs and locked them together, pinning him there, needing to keep the man who adored him as close as he could. The sensations were overwhelming—both of them panting short hot breaths onto each other’s necks, and making raw and obscene noises into each other’s ears. And the added closeness had Roth getting more fevered, snapping his hips with more force, eliciting throaty moans with every thrust. Jacob Frye. Under him. Wanting him. Touching him. Coming undone for him.

But as close as they both clearly were to the edge, Roth didn’t want it to end yet. He'd not allowed himself to feel as deeply as this in years. He wanted to watch his assassin writhing beneath him for just a few moments more. But Jacob was already gone. He whined as he bit down into Roth's shoulder, and his muscles clenched and quivered around him. And a moment later Jacob was coming, crying out Roth's name as he shot hot streaks across Roth's chest.

Roth tried to slow down, tried to keep control, but the sight of Jacob had him losing his rhythm, and his own climax started to hit. He arched his back and pulled Jacob up into him, shuddering as the heat rushed up to meet him. And with one more snap of his hips, Roth was coming too. Stomach tightening, vision narrowing, he spilled onto Jacob and coated their hands and chests.

“ _Jacob!"_ He kept saying it. 

“ _Jacob!"_ Breathlessly mouthing it as he rocked through the final pulses of his orgasm.

 _“Jacob!”_ While Jacob held him close and pressed light, open-mouthed kisses along his neck and shoulders. Spent and drained, contented and complete.

Jacob was everything now.

\-----

The two of them stayed at the piano for quite a while afterwards. Roth was sat on the stool with Jacob straddled across his lap, his arms wound tightly around his assassin while they shared slow and lazy kisses through their exhaustion, oblivious to the sticky mess between them. The complexity of what had just happened seemed to be gone, replaced by a level of closeness that was new to both of them. Everything had changed. Roth had let Jacob in - he'd let himself be with him. They'd let themselves be with each other. There was no denying it now, Jacob was under his skin and it was too late to go back to how things were. Both of them were attached and there was nothing either of them could do about it.

This wasn’t about the thrill of taking down Starrick, it was about them.

Eventually they staggered from the piano and across to a futon at the back of the stage that was being used as part of the rehearsals. Neither of them had spoken a word. Nothing had needed to be said. They seemed content enough just to be with each other and lay entwined, looking out across the auditorium, Roth stroking Jacob’s hair softly as his assassin lay across him.

After a while Roth began to laugh quietly to himself.

“That would have been quite the show, darling. A sellout performance!” He planted a gentle kiss on the back of Jacob’s head.

Jacob chuckled, managing a weak nod as his weary eyes became heavy, and he slipped into a contented sleep. Roth followed not far behind.

They were in deep. Deeper than either of them realised.

\---

Later that night, after Jacob had left and Roth had gone to bed, Lewis began running through his usual security checks around the Alhambra before locking up, just as he did every night before he turned in to bed himself. Still seething from his earlier run in with Jacob, he trudged through dark corridors, ruminating, half-heartedly checking the windows and doors as he went.

Before long, he found himself walking back across the stage to where Roth had been sat with Jacob at the piano earlier. To begin with, nothing seemed particularly odd or out of place, but as Lewis looked closer he noticed the scattering of little white shirt buttons on the floor. He studied them for a few moments, trying to make sense of what he was looking at. He had no idea of what had happened. When Roth had dismissed him hours earlier, Lewis had gone to sort through the costumes and newly delivered props back stage. Once he'd finished, he'd moved outside to groom the horses before bedding them down for the night.

Lewis took a step closer towards the piano, still not able to comprehend why the buttons were there, but then, through the corner of his eye he noticed Roth’s waistcoat draped over the piano stool, and just like that, it all dropped into place. He stood motionless for a few moments, chest tightening as it all sank in—it didn’t take a genius to work out what had likely gone on there.

_Jacob._

Lewis snarled. Somehow that boy had got to go. The sooner, the better.

He set about collecting up the buttons, along with the waistcoat and the discarded sheet music that Roth had thrown to the floor. But as he bent down, something else caught Lewis's eye underneath the piano. Something small and shiny. He crouched down further and onto his knees, then reached under and retrieved what looked like a small pendant that was attached to a worn piece of brown leather cord. Lewis instantly recognised what he was looking at—it was Jacob’s necklace. He’d seen the assassin wearing it that very same day. It had clearly fallen off during the passionate exchange earlier without either Jacob or Roth noticing.

Lewis glared down at the pendant. It was made from a one shilling coin. On one side was the likeness of Queen Victoria, but on the other was the curious insignia of the Assassin Brotherhood—the sight of which made Lewis's blood boil. He slowly rose to his feet and stepped back from the mess around the piano, tightening his grip on the coin as the hatred began to rise in him again.

Without thinking, he marched over to the side window and slung it wide open, readying himself to hurl the necklace into the putrid gutter below—only something stopped him. For some reason that he couldn’t explain, a stillness came over him, and he found himself closing the window and slipping the necklace into his trouser pocket instead.

An act that in doing so, had just sealed the fate of three people.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, I know, I'm awful at 'sexy time' writing in this chapter. As I said, I am completely new at all of this. Hopefully I'll get better!
> 
> I hope you liked the rest though.. :)
> 
> As always, if you'd like to leave me feedback, it's very much appreciated and helps me improve. :)


	8. The Dangerous Dance (E)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start to fall apart as another plan to sabotage Starrick almost goes horribly wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness! Sorry for the delay, anyhooo, hope you enjoy this chapter! There's a bit of everything! :D
> 
> As always, thanks so much for stopping by and taking a look.

** Chapter 8  ** **\- The Dangerous Dance (E)**

The weather was foul. The rain was coming down so hard that Lewis could barely see his hand in front of his face.

Soaked and irritable, he'd just arrived at the Bank of England to deposit the monthly takings from the Alhambra after a long and tiring morning running errands for Roth. All that was left to do, was to drop off the posters for the upcoming show with the man who was charged with plastering them all around London.

He hadn’t seen his boss that morning. As far as he could tell, Roth was sleeping in after his night with Jacob.

Lewis stood in line awaiting his turn with the cashier and tried not to think about it. He was exhausted. He’d spent most of the night churning things over in his mind, wondering how he could get rid of Jacob. Or turn Roth against him. Or preferably, _both_.

Unfortunately, his attempts to keep his mind focused were ruined when he slid his hand into his trouser pocket and realised that Jacob’s necklace was still in there from the night before. Lewis grit his teeth, nostrils flaring as the anger began to simmer in his stomach again. If it hadn’t been for the fact that he was in public, he would've quite happily tossed the necklace to the floor and allowed it to make a swift and sudden acquaintance with the muddy underside of his shoe. But even though the assassin was certainly bringing that side of him out lately, that really wasn't Lewis's style. Lewis liked to keep himself measured and dignified, so instead, he scraped his nails hard across the pendant's surface and promised himself that, once he'd finished his errands, he would throw it into the sewer opening down the street- just like he should have done last night.

Outside, the rain had finally slowed to a steady drizzle, and after dropping off the posters, Lewis set off in the direction of the sewers. It was only when he reached the end of the street that he became aware of someone following him. A woman, dressed completely in black and carrying a matching umbrella that covered her face, shielding her from the rain. He recognised her from the bank—she'd been watching him from the doorway, but Lewis had thought nothing of it.

Apparently, he'd been wrong to do that.

Lewis walked faster. She walked faster. Lewis crossed the road. She crossed the road, until finally the woman was at his heels. A hand clamped down on Lewis's shoulder.

“Lewis?” She had a stern voice to match her grip.

Lewis turned around and bowed his head to address her. “Yes, Miss…er….?”

“Miss Thorne.” Lucy took down her umbrella and revealed her face, cheeks rosy and hair ruffled from trying to keep up with him. Lewis had met her on numerous occasions when taking Roth to Templar gatherings. She was a cold woman. Singular in her drive, much like Starrick.

“Good day, Miss Thorne, how nice to see you ag—“

“Crawford Starrick requests your company immediately.” Lucy interrupted him, tone flat and disinterested. “Follow me please.” Lewis didn’t really have a choice.

Back they went, retracing their steps until they arrived at a private alleyway that led behind the bank, usually reserved for the more wealthy and influential customers. Waiting for them in the courtyard to the rear was the unmistakable carriage of the Grand Master himself. Starrick’s carriage was larger than average. It was mostly black with a dark purple trim around the doors, and in the centre of the each of the wheels was the undeniable red cross of the Knights Templar. It was a foreboding sight.

Starrick had four guards. One holding the reins, one protecting the driver and two stood on the luggage platform to the rear. All heavily armed, all eyeing Lewis.

Lucy knocked on the carriage door, then opened it and nudged Lewis inside. She followed and closed it firmly behind her, shutting out the noise of the bustling streets. A sudden, eerie silence to descended in the carriage.

Starrick sat across from them, emotionless while he waited for them to settle, then he turned to Lewis and forced an unconvincing smile. A smile with an edge so sharp you could cut yourself on it.

“Lewis. How good to see you again. I trust you are well?” He was getting the pleasantries out of the way, that much was obvious, and Lewis was under no illusion that something more ominous was looming.

“Mr Starrick.” Lewis dipped his head, taking off his hat and fiddling with the rim.

“Lewis, it would seem that I require your assistance. It has come to my attention that Maxwell Roth has recently become misaligned in regard to his allegiances to the Order. What can you tell me about this?”

Lewis swallowed hard.  _Shit_. Starrick knew about Roth and Jacob’s sabotages. The game was up. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped himself short. He knew he had to choose his words very carefully, or risk hanging himself in the process.

“Lewis,” Starrick's tone was sterner this time, not appearing to appreciate the hesitation. His eyes narrowed as he leant closer. “Your loyalty to Mr Roth is most touching, but might I remind you that any employee of his ultimately works for _me_ and will align with _me_ alone. You will do yourself no favours by refusing to talk. I’ll ask you once more. What can you tell me about Mr Roth and his... _n_ _ew friend?_ ”

There was no easy way out of this. Starrick was getting impatient, and judging by the fidgeting Lewis could see from the corner of his eye, Lucy was getting more than a little ruffled too. But then it suddenly dawned on him that he was sat with an opportunity to get rid of Jacob once and for all— _if_ he worded it right.

“Jacob Frye, Mr Starrick.” Lewis blurted. “An assassin. He’s been stalking Mr Roth for many weeks, forcing information out of him. _He_ has been responsible for the recent attacks, Sir. _He_ is the source of the trouble.” Lewis held his breath and waited, hoping he'd been careful enough to keep the blame away from his boss. This was his chance to put things right. Blame the assassin. Let Starrick take him away and everything would go back to how it was before. Just him and Maxwell.

Starrick seemed pleased with the answer. Amused even.

“I’ve had the Alhambra watched since yesterday morning, Lewis. I know of Jacob Frye. I know he and Roth are, shall we say, working together. I asked you here to confirm that my sources are indeed correct. Good. Your loyalty is appreciated. You made the right choice.”

Starrick offered another unfelt smile and Lewis felt a brief wave of relief wash over him. He'd passed the test at least, but he still couldn't be sure if Starrick had bought his version of events.

The Grand Master leant back in his seat and studied the man before him. He knew of Lewis’s feelings for Roth—anyone who ever saw them together knew. It seemed that the only person that was completely oblivious to it all was Roth himself and Starrick fully intended to use that to his advantage.

“Tell me Lewis, do you enjoy your life with Mr Roth?”

Lewis drew in his breath sharply, unprepared for the sudden change in direction. He broke eye contact with Starrick for a moment and resumed fumbling with his hat, not quite sure what the Grand Master was getting at.

“Well—yes, Mr St—“

Starrick held up his hand to signal for Lewis to stop talking. He leant forward again, closer this time, watching the other man visibly shrink as he towered over him.

“Lewis, Maxwell Roth doesn’t appreciate you. He never has. The man is despicable. Selfish and ruthless. He would never show such loyalty in return.”

Starrick edged forward some more and kept going. The atmosphere was becoming intimidating.  He was determined to assert his authority.

“Roth is like a magpie, Lewis, always looking out for something new and shiny to bring back to his nest, and I’ve no doubt that he’s besotted by his latest acquisition. The assassin.”

Lewis winced. That one hurt, Starrick could tell that much, but still he continued to beat Lewis into submission with his words.

“All of those years helping him, Lewis. All of those years of your life wasted, and for what? What have you got to show for it? What has he ever given you in return for your devotion? What did he ever do for you?”

Lewis could see Lucy nodding eagerly at Starrick as he sustained his attack on him. He thought back to how Roth had been with him since Jacob had arrived on the scene. Maybe Starrick was right. Maybe Roth didn't appreciate him. But he did before Jacob arrived. And maybe he would again when Jacob was gone. It was a chance Lewis was willing to take.

“Roth likes to play sordid little games, Lewis. I’m sure you have bore witness to that by now. He’s dragged you along into his murky little world. But no matter. It’s all coming to a head now. He has reached the end game in choosing to play with me.”

Lewis searched for something to say but nothing would come. He glanced back up to Starrick. The Grand Master seemed satisfied in his efforts to crush him and straightened his posture, softening his voice as he spoke again.

“You’re a fine man and do a fine job, Lewis. You deserve better than all of that. I have an opening at my offices. I would like you to come and work with me and I will gladly welcome you into the Order. You shall have exceptional pay, a place to live, security into your old age, and most importantly, the _respect_ you duly deserve.”

Lewis blinked, numb, like he wasn't in his body anymore. This was going wrong. Yes, he wanted Jacob gone, but he didn't want to leave Roth too. Lewis shuffled in his seat and stared down at his knees, but as he did so, the brown cord of Jacob’s necklace slipped out from his trouser pocket and caught his eye. Without thinking, he took the pendant out and held it in the palm of his hand.

Starrick recognised the Assassin symbol immediately and tipped his head, curious. 

“The pendant Lewis? You took this from Frye?” Starrick and Lucy exchanged a knowing glance. It was the same symbol Lucy had noticed on Evie's cloak the night she stole the notebook from her carriage. The very symbol that helped Lucy identify that the twins were assassins.

“I found it at the Alhambra, Sir….but yes, it belongs to the assassin—to Jacob Frye.”

Starrick stayed emotionless and held out his gloved hand.

“Give it to me, Lewis. I’ll take care of that for you. There’s no need to torture yourself any longer.” Lewis handed it over. It was a relief to be rid of it.

Starrick glanced down at the pendant, nodding to himself as he slowly turned it over in his hand. He now had everything he needed to bring Roth to his knees.

The Grand Master pocketed the necklace, then turned back to Lewis and his tone darkened once more.

“You have one day to decide. You will come to me tomorrow morning at my offices and leave your life at the Alhambra behind. But be warned Lewis, should you choose to stay with Roth, then you are choosing to go against the Order and will be punished accordingly. Do I make myself clear?”

Lewis nodded.

"May the Father of understanding guide you."

\---

“Jacob, I think we need to talk.” Evie was sat in the front carriage of the train, watching her brother closely. He finished pulling on his boots and flicked his wrist to check his hidden blade, then loaded up his weapon belt with throwing knives, smoke bombs and bullets. He’d only noticed his necklace was missing that morning, but he wasn’t about to start looking for it now. Judging by the look on her face, Evie was obviously building up for something. He’d check the train for it later.

“Jacob—”

“It’s fine, really.” The answer came shorter than he’d meant it to, but Jacob wasn’t in the mood to argue with her, not today. He just wanted to leave, to get back to Roth.

“Hardly! Wait, where are you going?”

This time Jacob didn’t answer. They still hadn’t spoken since the fight—since she’d mentioned their father. Even if he wanted to, this wasn’t the time to try and explain. He buckled the fully stocked belt into position and stood to leave.

“Jacob, I haven’t seen you properly in days. Why are you avoiding me?” 

“I’m not! Look, I have a lead. I need to go. We’ll talk about it later.” Jacob turned, and set off towards the door. Roth had mentioned something about another sabotage. It was time he made his way to the Alhambra.

“Then I’ll come with you.”

Evie hopped to her feet and grabbed her coat.

“ _No!_ Just…no.”

“Well at least tell me where you’re getting your leads from! Look, I know about the Soothing Syrup. I know about the Templars that went missing and the explosives at St Pancras. It’s getting too dangerous Jacob.”

“It’s fine. I have my Rooks.”

“Your Rooks haven’t seen you in days!” Evie threw her hands in the air with frustration. 

“What?! So you’re _spying_ on me now?!” Jacob bit straight back.

“Well how else am I supposed to know what’s going on? You’ve shut me out!”

“And why is that, Evie?” 

“ _Jacob_ , what if Starrick is on to you—to us? There are Templars everywhere. Henry’s people say he’s doubled his army’s presence overnight. If we’re not careful, we risk blowing the whole thing.”

“And I suppose that’s all _my_ fault? It wouldn’t have anything to do with you and that Thorne woman now would it, dear sister?” Jacob turned and marched back toward the carriage door, snatching up the last of his gear on the way past. He'd had enough of this. 

“Well you’re the only one drawing attention to us!” Evie yelled after him.

The train slowed as it drew in at King’s Cross Station.

“Get over yourself, Evie.” Jacob didn’t give her chance to answer. He slammed the door behind him and leapt out onto the station platform, instantly blending in with the crowds, slipping away unnoticed as he started his journey towards the Strand.

Evie stood open mouthed, glaring at the door, completely at a loss for a reasonable explanation to account for why Jacob was being like this—why he was acting so out of character. Nothing was making sense. Nothing at all.

She wasn't even sure how long she'd been standing there when Ned appeared in the carriage doorway and came over, but judging by the sympathetic look he offered her, he'd clearly heard everything.

“Look, the offer is still open, Evie. I can have someone follow him. Just give me the word.”

She shook her head. “No, I can’t...” But then she thought for a few moments. What if Jacob was in some kind of trouble? What if he was in danger? He’d always been too stubborn to ask for help.

”Look, okay….but please don’t let him see you.”

\---

It had just turned six in the evening by the time Jacob arrived at the Alhambra. Before he’d left last night, Roth had mentioned something about a lead that he was waiting for information on. Jacob had only been half listening. He’d been so absorbed as he lay in Roth’s arms that everything else had melted away.

Roth was waiting in his office, pacing. He’d been growing uneasy over the last few days. Something wasn’t right. Four more actors had pulled out of the show, tickets were being cancelled, contacts were vanishing, and now, on top of everything else, Lewis hadn’t returned from running his errands...which was unlike him.

Something was definitely off.  And whether Starrick knew about his betrayal or not, he was certainly tightening his grip around London in reaction to the attacks. People were running scared, and a result, it was getting harder for Roth to get information off his men. His most recent meeting that morning with his Blighter informants had been the worst attended yet, with only three men showing up. But at least he had what he needed—something interesting for him and Jacob to work with. He wouldn’t tell Jacob about his concerns just yet. He didn’t want to worry that handsome face until he had to.

Outside, Jacob decided to knock on the side door, bracing himself to face one of Lewis's less than welcoming greetings, but was taken aback when Roth answered, beaming as he beckoned him in.

“Jacob, my dear! Come, I’ve something to show you!”

Roth led Jacob by the hand down the hallway and through to his office, eagerly pointing over to a pile of documents on his desk. They looked a bit worse for wear, bloodstained even.

“I thought those might be of interest to you…to us. My boys had to break a few bones to get them, but anything for you, my dear.” Roth walked over to his baby crow and sprinkled a few seeds through the bars, cooing and stroking the young bird with his finger. Once again, the irony lost on him - food for his crow, food for his assassin.

Jacob scanned the pages. All invoices. All signed by Starrick. Hundreds, no, _thousands_ of cases of weapons and ammunition supplies delivered via the Thames to one of Starrick's largest warehouses in Southwark. The invoices went back over two months and the final shipment had taken place earlier that day. This was huge. This was perfect. With the army of Templars on the streets, disposing of the weapon cache would leave Starrick completely out of action.

"You devious bastard!" Jacob started laughing and was about to turn around when he felt the warmth of Roth's chest press against his back.

“I thought you’d like them, darling. My little gift to you.” Roth murmured against the soft skin on Jacob's neck, muffled by the trail of kisses he was leaving down the side. "We should make a date of it.” His hand snaked across Jacob’s waist and swung him around to kiss him. Their lips connected and Jacob dragged Roth closer, stumbling into the doorway as his hands found the back of Roth's head and pulled him in deeper. Roth went with it. His arms clamped around Jacob, his fingers roaming and clawing down his back and digging into his thighs, both of them as turned on by each other as they were by the danger of what was to come.

The kiss itself was rough and urgent. Desperate—as though they were trying to make up for the few hours they’d been apart—until Roth grudgingly broke away, leaving them both breathless and wanting more.

"Darling,” he panted, “as much as I'd gladly take you to my bed and do unspeakable things to you right now, I'm afraid we must leave. Those weapons will be moved by dawn. It's now or never."

\---

Roth suggested that they should take one of the Blighter carriages to blend in with the ones already on night patrol, with the plan to abandon it a few streets away from the warehouse. He’d arranged for one of his informants from the meeting that morning to be waiting with another carriage by the docks for after they’d finished, and if everything went to plan—which Roth repeatedly assured Jacob that it would—they’d be well away from the scene by the time the Templars were even aware of what had happened.

Roth stayed hidden in the back of the carriage while Jacob took the reins, his hood pulled down over his face to avoid being recognised as he stayed to the safest routes that Roth had laid out to him back at the Alhambra.

It was fully dark by the time they arrived, and the sparse lighting of the backstreets worked in their favour as they slipped forward undetected. The warehouse itself was heavily guarded, inside and out—just as Roth had predicted—and at least twelve Templars circled the perimeter with more snipers on the surrounding rooftops. Roth’s plan had been to rig the outside with dynamite and blow it sky high from the rooftop opposite, but they needed to thin out the resistance first.

Both men moved forward silently with Roth taking the lead as he slid out his dagger, crept behind the first guard in the alley, then cupped his hand over the unsuspecting Templar's mouth and slit his throat—smiling wryly at his ex-comrade when the spark of recognition flashed across the terrified henchman's face as Roth lowered his limp body to the ground. He turned back to Jacob, nodding the all clear, and his assassin got to work, scaling the side of the building and doing what he did best—quickly, quietly, and all the more eagerly with Roth as his sole audience.

Roth got into position on the adjacent rooftop and watched in awe, chest swelling with pride as Jacob took out the snipers and guards outside the warehouse. One by one they silently slumped to the floor as Jacob swept through the shadows and got the explosives into position in a matter of minutes. And it was magnificent to watch. Breathtaking. So elegant, so graceful. Roth was captivated as he watched his assassin dance to the tune of their own personal overture, before they came back together for the grand finale. A dangerous dance. The perfect show. All for him.

“Good boy!” Roth growled upon his return. Jacob gave a breathless grin back, as pleased as ever that he’d delighted him, watching as Roth readied his gun, perfectly aimed toward the crate of dynamite he'd placed by the door.

“Ready, my darling?” Roth turned back to face him, eyes glinting, savouring the moment for a few more seconds. Jacob nodded eagerly, as electrified with anticipation as he was by the way Roth was looking at him. This was going to be incredible.

Before Jacob could even begin to realise what Roth was doing, Roth reached out, gripped him by his coat, and dragged Jacob forward into a bruising kiss at the exact same time that he pulled the trigger. There was a loud _boom_ as the windows of the warehouse shattered, then the courtyard filled with a ground shaking string of explosions as box after box of ammunition blew up and spewed out its contents in a devastating spray of shrapnel. The guards inside didn’t stand a chance.

All the while, Roth kept Jacob locked in place, kissing him passionately on the exposed rooftop as bits of wood and brick showered and fell all around them—some only just missing— and the explosions thundered on. The air was thick, the smoke suffocating as it swirled around them. And Roth seemed to be getting a thrill out of the danger of it all.

Reluctantly, as the blasts became more ferocious, Roth broke away and they both took off towards the docks, speeding back across the rooftops and back down into the alleyways as the massive warehouse erupted into flames behind them.

Roth led the way, and kept to the shadowed backstreets as they raced through the slums. The alleyways were tight, but Jacob did his best to follow closely behind, his eyes never once leaving Roth as they darted past bins, and vaulted over walls, the smell of burning wafting behind them in the air, and the sound of faint explosions rumbling on in the distance.

It was only when Roth finally pulled in to a long, dark alley by the bank of the Thames that they stopped running. Both of them burst out laughing, gasping between wheezes while they caught their breath. It was exhilarating. They’d actually done it. _Together_. Two months of stockpiling gone in two minutes. Starrick would be livid.

“I should take you out more often, my dear.”

Jacob smirked and flopped back against the damp brickwork. The compliment shouldn't have felt any different to any of the others he'd received that night, but somehow, it did. His heart was already racing from the exertion, but there was something else to it—an ache that quietly tugged behind every beat. He glanced back over at Roth, and suddenly, overwhelmingly, he was taken over by the way the older man was gazing back at him—how his dark eyes burned with intensity, blazing with the freedom that they’d found in each other. And that was when it hit him—every last piece slotting into place at once. Yes, Roth was bad. Yes, he'd done terrible things in the past, but when everything else was stripped away, deep down they were the same. Somehow, Roth completed him. And maybe it was the adrenaline heightening his senses, but suddenly Jacob was falling—tumbling headlong into a striking moment of clarity as he realised that he actually _loved_ the man.

He was in love with _Maxwell Roth._  

Roth started to say something about them needing to get to the waiting carriage, but Jacob wasn’t hearing him anymore. He marched forward and pinned Roth against the wall, cutting him off mid-sentence as he brought their lips together for the third time that night. The kiss seemed to catch Roth off guard, and it took him a few moments to respond, but Jacob wasted no time. He pulled open Roth’s overcoat and pressed his hands against his chest to keep him in place, then he leaned closer, increasing the pressure as he slowed his lips and deepened the kiss. It was probably the most tender kiss they'd shared yet, and for the first time in his life, Roth didn't know how to handle it.

See, it was always _him_ that made the first move, and Roth wasn't prepared when Jacob started lovingly weaving his fingers through his hair, cupping his face and stroking the outline of his scar with his thumb while he kissed him. Jacob Frye. His beautiful assassin, holding him there and feeling every part of him like he was doing it for the first time. No-one had ever touched him with so much care like that. Roth shuddered and tried to pull Jacob closer, to take back some control, but Jacob knocked his hands away and dropped to his knees. Then without a word, he unfastened Roth’s trousers and pulled him free, exposing him to the cool night air.

“Are you sure, darling?”

Jacob nodded up at him. He was sure. He wanted to do it. He needed to do it.

And with the blood still thrashing through his veins, Jacob steadied his breath and took Roth into his mouth. His whole body was shaking, his heart throbbing hard in his chest, but Jacob closed his lips tightly around the tip of Roth’s cock and started to move.

He went slowly at first, trying to emulate what Roth had done to him two nights before, remembering how good it had felt, remembering the wet heat of Roth’s mouth and the heady pleasure that took him when Roth made him come. And Jacob wanted to give that back, wanted to make Roth feel that good. He began by carefully circling the head with his tongue, feeling out the shape of it, then he drew in his cheeks and rolled his lips steadily lower down Roth’s cock, feeling the full weight of him, thick and heavy on his tongue when Jacob dragged back up.

And it seemed to be working. Already, Roth’s breath was coming harder, his muscles tense and rigid, and he let out a low groan of pleasure that sent shivers running up and down Jacob’s spine, spurring him on.

“Darling...”

There was no way he’d be able to take the full length of him, not this first time at least, but Jacob did his best to slacken his jaw and eased Roth deeper. One hand diligently working what he couldn’t manage, the other closed around Roth’s thigh, stroking the muscles while Roth raked gentle fingers through Jacob’s hair, praise and encouragement tumbling from his lips and becoming more incoherent the faster Jacob moved on him.

“Wonderful, Jacob. So good—” Roth’s voice broke on a groan, his breath taken when Jacob hummed a contented moan, then dragged his tongue from base to tip in response to the praise. And Jacob _was_ good. His assassin. Doing this to him. And there was so much more Roth would teach him besides. So many things they would do together. Him and Jacob. Him and his beautiful assassin.

Jacob kept going, bobbing his head and picking up the pace. And as awkward and unskilled as it was, he actually started to enjoy the fact that he was causing Roth to make those noises. He was finally bringing him pleasure. Finally proving that he could. Finally causing him to come undone, and it felt _incredible_ —and a quick glance down to his own straining trousers proved that Jacob was more than enjoying himself too.

“Darling, ahh—”

Roth threw back his head, and started to make stifled noises through his teeth. His fingers twisted sharply in Jacob’s hair, and Jacob understood. He moved his lips faster, tightened his fist and pumped Roth’s cock harder. Roth’s taste was already becoming stronger on his tongue, and Jacob was determined to please him, but something was starting to distract him—the vague awareness of the faint sound of bells, ringing softly in the distance.

Jacob tried to ignore it at first—because he _had_ to finish this, and _well_ —but the sound was getting louder, echoing and bouncing off the brickwork in the alley. Until suddenly, the whole passageway lit up and two fire engines thundered past on the connected street, immediately followed by a flock of people racing after them to see what was going on. It would seem that their handiwork at the warehouse was beginning to draw a crowd, and for a few heart stopping moments, they were both clearly visible, exposed and on show for all of London to see. But the group seemed too preoccupied with the billowing plumes of smoke on the blazing horizon to notice them, and the passage fell back into darkness as they bustled on by.

Jacob's heart was pounding violently. He thought about stopping, but Roth's grip on him suddenly tightened and he started to shudder, pulling and fisting at Jacob's hair. Something about the excitement of getting caught had him snarling—Jacob knew he was close. Roth let out a low, ragged moan and Jacob responded, pumping his fist relentlessly fast until he felt Roth swell and throb in his mouth, pulsing as he sucked him closer to his climax. And almost instantly, Roth was hissing and arching his back.

 _“J-Jacob! Jacob!”_ Roth just about managed to warn him as he dug his fingers into Jacob's scalp and came, shooting ribbons into Jacob’s mouth and coating the back of his throat. Jacob dropped back onto his heels, coughing and spluttering. Mouth burning, lips raw and stinging, gasping for air while he tried to swallow. It tasted bloody awful, but he’d done it. And he’d do it again. He'd do anything for that man.

He'd made Maxwell Roth cry out his name. Brought him to his knees. He'd made him fall apart and it felt _amazing_. 

_“Jacob..”_

The connected street continued to fill as more and more people could be heard shouting across to each other, trying to find out what had happened. But just for that moment, the world and everything in it zeroed to just the two of them. Roth scooped Jacob to his feet and held him tightly against his heaving chest while they both caught their breath, their bodies thrumming with warmth despite the sharp chill of the cool November air.

And when Jacob finally brought his head up to look at him, he couldn't help but smile at the sight that met him there. Maxwell Roth, the infamous leader of the Blighters— cheeks flushed, face glistening, eyes wide and his pupils completely blown. All because of Jacob. And in his own, unconventional way, Maxwell looked beautiful.

"Darling, I—"

Jacob leant in and kissed him again, letting Roth's words fill his mouth before he dished out another of his compliments. But no sooner as he did so, another group of people appeared at the end of the alley, this time coming down toward them. Jacob jerked back and the two of them ducked, both recognising the men's uniform instantly. _Templars._ One of them had a lantern and was waving it in their direction, trying to get a better look.

“You there! What are you doing? Freeze.”

"Shit! _Go!"_ Rothhissed _._

They took off, Roth still gripping Jacob's coat as they raced down to the other end of the alleyway before the light managed to reach them. The Templars began to give chase, drawing their weapons and yelling for them to stop, but they kept running, as fast as their legs would carry them.

Gunfire rang out and echoed down the passage as bullets whooshed and whistled past their heads, narrowly missing them and grazing the brickwork behind. More shots fired and the Templars started to gain on them, but the duo seemed to have the edge and they both continued on, ducking and diving in and out of cover, in total sync with each other’s movements as they sped along towards the docks.

And it was working. The rumble of the pursuing Templars began to fade behind them and Roth cut through an unlit backstreet and onto the main docks to where the carriage was waiting nearby. Jacob followed closely behind him, but it was so dark that the assassin didn’t notice the piece of wood sticking up on the walkway as he caught it with his foot and catapulted himself heavily onto his side, yelling out in pain when he felt his rib ping as it broke on impact.

Roth heard him cry out and froze on the spot. He spun on his heels, the colour draining from his face when he saw Jacob lying there, crumpled and motionless on the floor. And just for a moment, his whole entire world stopped spinning. Had the Templars shot him? Was Jacob _dead_?

There was no time left. The Templars appeared at the end of the walkway and began racing forwards. Jacob tried to push himself up but the pain in his side was searing. With only seconds to spare before he was spotted, he managed to reach into his coat and tossed a smoke bomb in the opposite direction to throw the Templars off course.

But it was too late.

Two strong hands gripped him by the shoulders from behind and began to drag him backwards along the gravel. Jacob tried to struggle, but he was too winded to do anything about it. Another Templar appeared, snarling and running towards him, dagger glinting in the moonlight as he raised it above his head and got ready to plunge it down into the assassin's chest. But before Jacob could react, the person dragging him stopped, cocked their gun, and shot the Templar between the eyes, killing him instantly and showering Jacob with his blood as his body slumped to the floor at his feet.

“I’ve got you, darling.”

By the time Jacob got his breath back and Roth had helped the injured assassin to cover, the whole area was swarming with Starrick’s army. The guards seemed to be concentrating mainly on searching Starrick’s factories, and when it was finally safe to move, Roth slung Jacob's arm over his shoulder and helped him into the waiting carriage that was tucked away under a small lean-to by a disused soap factory. Roth knocked on the roof to signal to his Blighter driver and the carriage pulled away, keeping off the main streets as they both laid low on the back seat to avoid being seen through the windows.

The journey back to the Strand from Southwark took a lot longer than usual, made worse by detours to avoid the bridges that now crawled with police and Templar activity. Nothing was said between them—Roth simply held Jacob tightly in silence as his assassin lay injured beside him, watching the street lights pass by, lighting the inside of the carriage every so often.

Jacob wanted to say something. He wanted to thank him. Roth had just saved his life—but he felt too shell-shocked to speak, too numb, tears constantly threatening to spill from the corner of his eyes. Instead, he reached out into the darkness, only for Roth to immediately scoop up his hand and bring it to his lips in his trademark way, linking their fingers as he pressed a soft kiss to Jacob's knuckle. And then he said it again:

“I’ve got you, darling.”

Unfortunately for them, they were so absorbed in each other that neither of them noticed the outline of a man standing in the shadows when they arrived back at the Alhambra, watching them as they stumbled out of the carriage and into the theatre. Neither did they notice when Starrick’s hidden man slipped along the side of the parked carriage and planted a blade into the head of Roth’s driver, his last Blighter informant, as they fell into the theatre and closed the door behind them.

Starrick had everything now. And all Roth had left, was Jacob.

\---

It wasn’t until they were sat in Roth’s bedroom that Jacob realised how injured he was. Everything hurt, and the whole of his left side throbbed around his chest and ribcage, making it difficult to breathe. And there was blood too, seeping from the grazes he’d collected on impact, and a gash to his knuckle that had caught the vein and bled heavily on his trousers. It wasn’t a big wound, but it was a clean cut—deep and open, peppered with bits of glass that shattered in the explosion.

He sat in the chair by the fire while Roth knelt before him and cleaned him up the best he could with various spirits and ointments he had in the cabinet. The older man seemed disturbed by the fact that Jacob was injured, his eyebrows pulled together the whole time he tended to him. Jacob watched on as Roth took out his handkerchief and gently pressed it onto the wound, dabbing the worst of the blood off before tying it tightly in place to keep the pressure on until it stopped bleeding. After that, he found out some bandages from his old boxing days and braced them tightly around Jacob's already bruising chest to help ease the pain from his rib.

Suddenly, the magnitude of what had happened began to dawn on. Roth wasn’t used to feeling like this and neither was Jacob. So ripped open and vulnerable. It had been a close call tonight. Jacob had been injured, they were both covered in cuts and grazes, and they’d had a very narrow escape. _Too_ narrow. Jacob could have been killed and Roth didn’t like it. He didn’t want to lose him. Not now. Not like this. Not over Starrick. But maybe it was too late. Maybe they'd lost each other the very moment they'd met.

Neither of them spoke, but Jacob was starting to feel uneasy. This wasn’t one of their usual silences—filled with want, and lust, and sexual tension. This was dark, and heavy, and solemn. They just stared at each other, both frowning, hearts aching.

Roth eventually stood and walked over to the window, removing his shoes and taking off his overcoat and suit jacket, placing them on the chair to the side. He leant on the window pane and glanced down onto Leicester Square below. Several Templars circled the streets in carriages and on foot, far more than were usually patrolling at this hour. Whether they knew about Jacob and Roth or not, everything had changed now, and it was all because of them. Time was running out. If they didn’t get Starrick soon, everything would be over. Quite possibly, one of them was going to die. Without question, their dangerous liaison would be over.

Jacob watched Roth from the chair, heart aching as he fixated on him. Because maybe this was all his fault. If he'd just stuck to Roth's plan and hadn't caused them to lose time in the alley, then maybe they would've got to the carriage sooner—undetected—and none of this would've happened. Maybe he _was_ the fuck-up that Evie always made him out to be. Jacob slumped forward in the chair, head in his hands, eyes burning as he fought back the tears again. The silence was becoming too much. He just wanted Roth to say something. _Anything._

“Roth— _Maxwell…I—_ ”

“Will you stay the night, darling?” Roth turned to look at him, eyes heavy, still frowning. He didn't want Jacob going back out there. Not while he was so badly injured. Not if those Templars were looking for them.

Jacob’s heart leapt into his mouth. It wasn’t the reply he was expecting, but there was no way he wanted to go back to the train and explain the blood and gunpowder all over his clothes, nor his injuries. After all that had happened, there was nowhere he’d rather be than here and no-one he wanted to be with more than Roth, Maxwell. Jacob lifted his head and nodded back at him. He wanted to stay. Roth had saved him. He trusted him. He needed him. He fucking loved him.

Roth’s faced softened a little. He smiled faintly and came back over. He leant down and eased off Jacob’s boots for him, then led him over to the bed and held him as they lay, cupped together in silence.

And Jacob had never felt as safe or anchored in his life.

\---

Roth had been gentle when he finally took Jacob that night. He hadn’t planned for anything to happen between them, and despite being hurt, it had been Jacob that moved things forward. Because in that moment, nothing hurt as much as the thought of losing each other. Roth had gone slowly, and he let Jacob have as much comfort and control as he needed, supporting him until he was ready. And when he finally entered him, it was in the knowledge that Jacob wanted it as much as he did, both of them unravelling until they came undone, melting into one as they called out each other’s names repeatedly into the night.

\---

His arms were still tightly wrapped around Jacob when Roth woke. They both lay naked in Roth's bed, clothes strewn around them on the floor, with only their body heat and the thin, untidy bed sheets pulled over them for warmth. Jacob was still sleeping soundly, and he looked so serene and peaceful that Roth didn’t want to move. But something was bothering him, niggling away at the back of his mind. The invoices. He’d carelessly left them on his desk when they’d left earlier in the evening. Normally he would burn anything like that —never leave a trail— but in the hurry to leave, (and the brief moment of passion in the doorway), it had completely slipped his mind. That was happening a lot lately.

Roth kissed his assassin softly on the back of the head and gently slid his arm out from underneath him. He glanced across at the window as he rose from the bed. It was still dark out, if he took care of this now, he’d still have time to come back and lie with Jacob some more before they had to face the harsh reality of the morning. Decision made, Roth lit a candle, then slipped on his robe and crept out of the bedroom, gently closing the door behind him as he set off downstairs.

When he reached his office, Roth immediately knew something was wrong. The fluttering of the curtain in the corner caught his eye—the window was open. Roth _never_ opened that window. He scanned the room. Muddy footprints on the floor leading to the desk….the invoices were gone. In their place sat a single cream envelope. Roth stepped closer and recognised the wax seal immediately. His blood ran cold.

C.S.

Crawford Starrick.

He opened it.

~~~~~~~

_Dear Mr Roth,_

_It is with deepest regret that I write to inform you of the termination of your contract in regard to your services to the Order._

_Your membership is hereby withdrawn with immediate effect, along with the benefits and income you received as part of your affiliation._

_Both I and the Order thank you for your assistance and wish there could be a more pleasant outcome._

_However, in light of recent events, you leave me with no option. There is still a debt to be settled and your betrayal comes at the highest price. I shall collect payment in full without further warning, starting with the enclosed._

_Yours sincerely_

_Crawford Starrick_

~~~~~~~

 

Roth slid his fingers into the envelope and pulled out what looked like a coin attached to a worn piece of leather cord, but as he turned it over in his hand, his heart dived as it became blindingly obvious what he was looking at. The assassin symbol. It was Jacob’s necklace. Game over then _._ Starrick knew and Roth was as good as dead—and if Jacob didn't leave soon, then he was too. 

Roth immediately yanked the window shut and locked it securely. He stuffed the note and necklace into his robe pocket and turned toward the door, but before he had time to gather his thoughts, a creaking noise from across the stage suddenly focused him. He leant toward the door and listened. It couldn’t be Jacob, he was too far gone to have woken up and followed him so quickly. No—someone else was out there. In his theatre. Right now. And if it was the same person that had delivered Starrick’s letter, then Roth had to get back to Jacob. _Fast._

Licking his forefinger and thumb, Roth doused the flame of the candle and inched open the top draw of his desk, taking out the revolver he kept there. He gripped the gun with both hands, heart pounding as he focused his senses and silently edged out of his office and across the stage.

Through the darkness he heard the noise again. It was in front of him, coming from the backstage stairs that led up to the first floor. Roth followed slowly, careful not to step on any loose floorboards along the way. But when he finally got to the top of the stairs, dread flooded his stomach when he saw that his bedroom door was open halfway. He'd definitely shut it—or at least he thought he had...

 _Jacob_.

Roth took a deep breath and held it, tightening the grip on his gun as he slowly eased the door open with his elbow. The room was still in relative darkness, lit only by the dull haze of the street lights that seeped in through the undrawn curtains and fell lightly on the floorboards around the window. But as Roth edged further inside, something moving through the inky haze suddenly caught his eye. _S_ _omeone was there._  The silhouette of a figure, standing at the side of Roth's bed, pointing a gun squarely at Jacob’s head, who still lay there, fast asleep, oblivious.

Roth wasted no time. He poised his own gun at the figure and readied his finger on the trigger. But at that very same moment, the shadowed person became aware of his presence and spun to look at him, their face catching in the light from the window as they did so.

_“Lewis?!”_

**BANG!**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes! Well, there you go...I hope you liked it! This chapter was exhausting...these two make me cry! I just want them to live happily ever after...
> 
> As always, if you'd like to leave me feedback, it's very much appreciated and helps me improve. :)


	9. Blood Runs Thicker Than Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evie grows concerned for her brother’s safety when he fails to return to the train, but as the night unfolds, the magnitude of what might have happened starts to become clear.  
> \--------------------  
> I'm so very very sorry that this chapter has taken so long. For ages, this chapter was the grand finale, but it was getting soooo long (crazy long) that I've split it in two and have left this as the build up chapter instead. Therefore, chapter 10 will be the end *sobs*
> 
> Thanks again for the support and encouraging this clueless newbie! xx 
> 
> * As always, please note that this may contain spoilers from the game *

** Chapter 9 - Blood Runs Thicker Than Water **

Jacob didn’t come home that night.

Evie tried not to dwell on it, tried to keep busy with her preparations, but it was impossible. Every time she closed her eyes she was met with another image of her brother, lying badly injured somewhere, or worse. So she paced, then read, then paced some more, checking the front carriage every hour or so, but Jacob’s bed remained empty.

It wasn’t like Jacob hadn’t stayed out all night before—of course he had, but somehow, this time felt different. She was worried. She had that feeling again—that gnawing hollow ache in her stomach. The very same feeling she’d had when she was eight years old and was studying quietly inside while Jacob practised his climbing skills in the trees in the back garden. She’d reached for another textbook from their father's bookcase, but was stopped short when a sudden and inexplicable jolt shot through her entire body. And when she stood and went over to the window, she saw Jacob wailing and lying in a crumpled heap on the floor having misjudged the highest branch. Evie felt Jacob's pain, or at least the extremes. It was that strange sibling bond that only twins seemed to have. Maybe she was imagining it, but she could feel it faintly now.

“Something’s not right, Henry. We had words before he left this afternoon. What if something happened to him? What if he’s—”

“Evie, please,” Henry lightly stroked her arm. “Let’s try not to jump to conclusions just yet. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.” If only he believed his own words. Even for someone as highly skilled as Jacob—a master assassin—the streets of London were far too dangerous to be out alone, especially at night. Something had changed. But he wasn’t about to say that to Evie.

“Look, we have to let him come round in his own time. There’s nothing we can do. Jacob can more than look after himself.”

Henry guided Evie to sit in the armchair by the carriage door, and he began to gently rub and massage the taut muscles along the tops of her shoulders and the sides of her neck. And it seemed to help. Evie sighed heavily and he felt her relax, the tension in her softening a little under his touch.

“I just don’t understand what’s got into him, Henry. The lying. The arguing. It feels like he’s doing everything to spite me. He can be such a child sometimes.”

Henry didn’t answer, and continued on with the gentle kneading of her knotted muscles instead. In truth, he felt as helpless as she did and there was nothing more he could say to help. Jacob was Jacob. He did whatever he pleased, whenever he pleased – and this was no exception. Yes, he’d been acting odd recently, avoiding eye contact and leaving the train at all hours without so much of a hint of where he was going, but there was more than likely a logical explanation to it all —at least he hoped there was for Evie’s sake. He hated seeing her so tormented, especially since they’d grown so close lately.

His gaze fell to the soft, pale skin on Evie’s shoulders, and Henry watched his thumbs working, gently smoothing and rolling at the nape of her neck. As his fingers moved higher, a few strands of hair slipped lose from Evie’s neatly tied bun and brushed lightly against the backs of his fingers. Henry shivered, silently drawing in his breath. Evie was beautiful. He’d noticed that the very instant he’d set eyes on her, but could never quite muster enough courage to declare how he felt. He’d had plenty of opportunities, but somehow the fear of rejection was greater than the pain of not knowing if his feelings were returned. And so here he was again, finding himself yearning to lean in and press the most delicate of kisses to the back of her head, yet being totally unable to do so. Which was probably just as well, because at that very same moment, the door swung open and Ned appeared, dipping his hat in greeting as he entered the front carriage.

“Anything?” Evie sat bolt upright.

“Nothing solid yet, but a couple of my people saw him near the docks in Southwark not long after Starrick's warehouse went up in flames earlier this evening. It looks like it was probably his doing.”

“Hang on, _warehouse?_ ” Evie pushed herself up out of the chair and started to pace again, scanning the fragments of her mind to piece together her last conversation with her brother.

“Y’know, now I come to think about it, he did mention something about a lead before he left. That must’ve been what he meant.” Her eyes darted between Ned and Henry, and for a few short moments, her heart warmed at the thought that someone had seen Jacob. Maybe he was okay after all, and all of her worrying had been unfounded.

Ned nodded eagerly. “Yep, Starrick’s massive weapon cache. To give him credit Evie, that was quite something! Everything was destroyed. Those weapons were part of a huge shipment that’d been coming up the Thames to be offloaded for weeks. It’ll take the Templars a good couple of months to get those supplies back again. You’ve gotta hand it to him, the boy did good!”

“ _Good?!_ ” Evie’s mouth dropped open. The praise was far from appreciated—if Jacob had blown up another warehouse, then she probably had one of his messes to clear up, _again._ “Reckless more like! And who’s helping him? The Rooks? Jacob wouldn’t be capable of planning something like that alone. How would he even know about it?”

“It wasn’t the Rooks. None were in the area, but I’ve got them helping with the search. Plus, I’ve put the word out and have my people checking as far out as the Strand and Westminster. All boroughs are covered. If there’s someone else involved, we’ll know soon enough. Evie, I promise you, we _will_ findJacob.”

Evie slumped back down into the chair. “This is so typical of Jacob. He’s too naive. God knows what he’s got himself into this time.” She trusted Ned, but what if they _didn’t_ find Jacob? What if it was already too late? What if something happened to him  _after_ he left the warehouse? What if Jacob was…..the feeling was back again. Henry noticed her body tense and gently squeezed her shoulders.

“Evie, look, right now there’s nothing more we can do. With Ned’s contacts and the Rooks on the case, Jacob will show up soon enough and then we can finally get to the bottom of this. But right now, we have to leave. We _must_ get to the tower before Lucy Thorne. She has the key, and if she finds the Shroud before we do, then everything will be over. Starrick will be unstoppable.”

Evie nodded. Henry was right. She had to put Jacob to the back of her mind and ignore the nagging feeling that something worse had happened. Henry started to gather his things together and she joined him at the table and did the same, collecting her gauntlet and checking her blade, going through the motions - but try as she might, she couldn’t stop hearing her father’s words of warning drifting into her mind. ‘ _Don’t allow personal feelings to compromise the mission.’_ She’d been saying it to herself almost daily when she found herself becoming distracted by her growing affection for Henry, but now she was in the position of having to say it again when she thought of Jacob.

Starrick had to be stopped. At all costs.

\-----

It had just turned midnight by the time they arrived at the Tower of London, and the deep murk of the late autumn night made it perfect for them to stalk around in the shadows and slip inside the grounds unnoticed. Guards could already be seen swarming the perimeter in preparation for Lucy's arrival—standing in place at the main doorways and entrances, and as Lucy's carriage pulled in, several searchlights sprang into life and began pouring across the courtyards and footpaths, while others remained fixed on the main tower. To the untrained eye, the whole place looked impenetrable.

Through Henry's contacts, they'd learned that—at the instruction of Starrick—Lucy Thorne had managed to infiltrate the Royal Guard and it was plain to see that most of the armed men nearby were her agents. She had every inch covered...or so she thought. Unbeknown to the Templar, Henry had managed to secure a few disguised informants at the far border next to the guard house, and it wasn’t long before the duo managed to pick them out.

The plan was simple enough—to pretend that Evie had been caught, then allow Henry’s replica guards to march her straight to Lucy, where Evie would assassinate her and retrieve the key. It was risky, but they had no other option. Time was running out.

“I apologise in advance, but you do realise that I’ll have to hurt you a little to make this look convincing, don’t you?” Evie tried to joke, but Henry’s two guards gave her a nervous smile in return that conveyed more fear than amusement as they took her by the arms and marched her towards the main tower and up into the room where Lucy was frantically searching.

“Welcome, Miss Frye.” Lucy didn’t even look surprised to see her. “Do you care to tell me where the Shroud is?” She was her usual sneering and frosty self. At least she was consistent.

Evie remained silent, snarling at the Templar and pretending to struggle under the grip of Henry’s guards.

“Pathetic assassin. As you wish, I shall find it without your help. And then, I’ll strangle you with it. Guards, watch her closely.”

Evie waited for Lucy to turn, then in one swift move, she swung her fist and punched the first guard squarely in the stomach, then spun around and kicked the second guard the same. With both guards bent double in pain, she snatched hold of their heads and smacked them together, knocking them both out cold on the floor.

Before Lucy could even begin to reach for her knife, Evie barrelled towards her, one hand pinning her against the wall, the other at Lucy's throat—wrist poised and ready to deploy her hidden blade.

“You want the Shroud to cement your own power, but what if you can’t control it?” Evie barked at the Templar, the blood coursing through her veins as she readied herself to finally take out Starrick’s second in command. Everything she and Henry had worked towards had led up to this moment. This woman. This key.

Lucy seemed amused with the situation, smiling sickly and cocking her head. Fearless. “And why do _you_ want the Shroud? Merely to keep the Templars from having it? How like an Assassin. To hold the power of eternal life and yet be too afraid to use it. You won’t stop us. You won’t stop Crawford Starrick.”

“Oh, I beg to differ, Miss Thorne. Your rule over London is coming to an end.”

With a snarl and a flash of silver, Evie flicked her wrist and watched her blade deploy and slice cleanly into Lucy’s throat, instantly producing a stream of blood that trickled down her neck and reddened her blouse. Evie caught the Templar as she started to fall, and lowered Lucy to the floor as she went limp and heavy in her arms.

“And…..how do you….propose….you’re going to stop him? With your…..pathetic brother and his….puppeteer? Ha! Mark my words….they’ll both be dead by morning.” Lucy was coughing, spluttering her words. Blood from her wound streamed from her throat and pooled in her mouth.

“My brother? _Jacob?_ What about him?” Evie shook her violently, but the Templar just grinned back and began to laugh weakly as she bled out onto the floor.

“Miss Frye…perhaps your brother….should’ve been more careful….with whom he….got into bed with.”

“W-wait, _what_?! What do you mean?!” Evie shook her hard again, but it was too late. The light faded in Lucy’s eyes and her final, rasping breath left her body. She was dead. She had died smiling—as smug in death as she was in life.

Evie let go of the Templar and fell back on her heels, trying to process what she’d just heard. Jacob and his _puppeteer_? So Jacob _was_ working with someone. But, _dead_ _by morning?_

As the fear for her brother began to rise, the urgency to get out of there and find him suddenly became overwhelming. She glanced back at Lucy, eyes darting across her body. There was an odd, rectangular shaped metal object hanging around her neck. Evie leant closer. The key — _the key to the vault_ — she recognised it instantly from the journal. There it was. Right in front of her. Glistening and beautiful and emitting a strange and unyielding pull. Everything she’d read about it and everything her father had said about the Pieces of Eden was true.

Evie moved to take it, but jerked her hand away when a single deafening gunshot echoed in the corridor behind her. And then another shot rang out, followed by shouting and the thud of a door being kicked down. Several heavy footsteps were rapidly approaching. She was out of time. Evie drew out her handkerchief, brushed it across Lucy’s throat, then yanked the key from around the Templar's neck and launched herself through the window, just as the door swung open and Lucy’s guards discovered her body.

Evie had what she came for. While she had the key, Starrick wouldn’t be able to enter the vault.

For the moment, the Shroud was safe. London was safe.

But as of right now, there was only one thing on her mind. She had to find her brother, and fast.

\-----

Evie burst into the front carriage of the train. 2am. Still no sign of Jacob.

“Agnes, have you seen my brother?”

“Aye, he stopped by for a change of clothes an hour or so ago, but shot off again as soon as he could.”

“Thank God! He’s still alive.” Evie immediately spun on her heels and dived over to the pile of clothes that Jacob had slung into the corner ready for the laundry. His shirt and trousers were covered in blood and smelt heavily of smoke and gunpowder, but she couldn’t see any major damage. Some mud, some grazing, a few rips, but no knife punctures or bullet holes – maybe the blood wasn't his.

But then Evie reached into Jacob’s trouser pocket and pulled out an unfamiliar and expensive looking white silk handkerchief. That too was stained with blood and had two large initials embroidered onto it in elaborate gold and burgundy thread.

“M.R? Who the hell is M.R?” She stared down at it blankly, running the pads of her fingers along the letters.

“Maxwell Roth.” Ned answered her solemnly, his head tipped toward the floor. He’d arrived at the train not long after Evie and Henry and it was clear from the expression etched across his face that he didn’t have good news.

“Maxwell Roth? The leader of the _Blighters?”_ Evie gripped her stomach. “What the hell is he doing going after _him_ on his own? Jacob, you idiot!”

“Evie...” Ned hesitated, then walked over to her and sat down. He cleared his throat, then cleared it again, plainly struggling with whatever it was he needed to say.

Evie watched him intensely. Her stomach was aching again, uneasy like it had been earlier, and the ache only got deeper the longer she fixated on the pained expression on Ned’s face. Something was wrong.

“Ned?“

Ned took a deep breath, then spoke slowly. “Look…Evie….Jacob didn’t go after him. As far as we can tell, Roth turned against Starrick at some point and contacted Jacob for help in taking him down. He’s been—Jacob’s been working with him for weeks. My people in the Strand did some digging—got some Blighters to talk. Roth was the one providing the leads.”

Evie's mouth dropped open. “What? No, that’s ridiculous. Jacob wouldn’t…..Roth’s a _Templar!_ ” Nothing was making sense. Jacob working with a Templar? It couldn’t be true. But then Evie's mind flashed back to Lucy Thorne’s dying words at the tower: ' _Your brother and his_ _Puppeteer'_.

The violent, cold-blooded criminal that was Maxwell Roth. The leader of the Blighters. The very Blighters that Jacob had been fighting for weeks with his Rooks. Roth and Jacob—working together. Why would Jacob do that?

"Unless..." Evie's mind raced back through the last few strained exchanges with her brother. “My God _,_ this is all my fault! This is all because of _me._  The arguments—I pushed him away. I wasn’t moving fast enough for him. I should’ve let him have more control instead of always nagging him. If I’d just let him do things his way once in a while he wouldn’t have agreed to work with that evil thug and—”

“Evie, no—” Ned shook his head and looked away, then glanced down at his lap and blew out a sigh. “It’s not that,” he said quietly.

Henry, who up until that point had been watching from the doorway, now took a step forward, once again resting his hand on Evie's shoulder. “What is it, Ned?" He asked calmly, "What do you know?"

Ned swallowed hard, still not able to look at either of them. “Look, there’s no easy way to say this—and I’m not even sure if it’s my place to—“

“ _Ned!—_ If my brother is in some kind of trouble, then you _have_ to tell me!” 

“Okay, fine!” Ned threw up his hands. He rose from the chair and walked over to the assassination board the twins had pinned above their desk. Keeping his back to Evie somehow made it easier to continue—to tell her what he really wished he didn't know. He leant forward onto the desk and reluctantly carried on. 

“From what I’ve just been told, it’s no secret among certain Blighters that Roth’s been infatuated with Jacob for some time…and...and it’s quite possible that it’s not entirely one sided. They’ve been seen together on numerous occasions, and they were seen together tonight—after the warehouse went up."

Ned turned back to face Evie, though still not quite looking her in the eyes. "Evie, it looks like Jacob has spent the night at Roth’s theatre, the Alhambra, in the Strand. That’s where we presume he is right now, and that was the last sighting of either of them.” 

"Spent the night? Do you mean…Jacob and _Roth?_ But Roth’s old enough to be—”  Evie glanced back down and stared at the handkerchief in her hands again. How could she have missed this? Was she really that blind? There must have been signs. But would it have made any difference if she knew? 

Ned continued softly. “Not only that, but since the attack this evening, the Strand has been swarming with heavily armed Templars. Starrick knows about Roth’s betrayal. My guess is he’s looking for him—for _them_.”

Evie calmly placed the handkerchief back on top of Jacob’s clothes and rose to her feet, catching her reflection in the carriage window as she did so. And that was when she noticed the key—still hanging there around her neck, and Lucy’s last words were once again flooding her mind. _Dead by morning—_ Jacob and Roth. Ned was right. If Lucy knew what Jacob and Roth had done, then Starrick definitely knew—and every one of his army was gunning for them both.

She turned to Henry and Ned, the three of them stood in silence, each glancing between the other while everything sunk in, then she snapped her heels together and marched to the doorway.

“Henry, you come with me. Ned, gather as many Rooks as you can—tell them to go to the Strand. We’ve no time to lose. Whatever’s going on—I—I don’t care. Jacob’s still in trouble. He’s still my brother. He still needs us.”

As the train slowed and pulled in to Victoria Station, the trio sprang into action, grabbing their things and gathering at the door in the front carriage. But just as Evie swung her weight onto her back foot to leap off, a dishevelled and out of breath man bustled through the crowd of people waiting on the platform below and ran over to the train, yelling and waving his arms anxiously.

“Wait! NED! Mr Wynert, Sir! I’ve just received word that Jacob Frye was spotted outside Crawford Starrick’s offices half an hour ago.”

“ _Go!_ We have to save him!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there you go. Not really the chapter I wanted to bring you, but the last chapter will hopefully be tighter with this part having its own little place before it...  
> Once again, thank you so much for sticking around and reading, and for the support of my first ever fic! 
> 
> The lovely comments, subscriptions, bookmarks and kudos—every last one of them makes me smile and truly, truly, truly makes my day :)
> 
> As always, if you'd like to give me feedback, good or bad, it's very much appreciated and helps me improve. :)


	10. The Final Curtain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'If only they hadn’t fallen so deep that their eyes lost sight of the prize.'
> 
> Injured and in turmoil, Jacob struggles to accept that things are over and takes matters into his own hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry this chapter has taken so long. I'm super nervous to be posting it...but here it is. 
> 
> The chapter starts in the present, then jumps back to where chapter 8 ended.
> 
> I hope you like it...a lot happens from here on in. 
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone who stuck around! :)

** Chapter 10 – The Final Curtain  **

London was in lockdown.

Starrick was clearly taking no chances. The rain soaked streets below swarmed in a sea of red and black, Blighters gathered on every corner, Templars filed through every passageway. And the rooftops were no better—snipers and lookouts lined the way as far as Jacob could see, poised and ready, silhouetted like statues against the miserable night sky.

Both routes looked impossible, but this was his only chance and he was determined to take it. Nothing could stop him now. 

Huddled in the shadows between the warmth of two smoking chimneys, a final glance below confirmed Jacob’s suspicions—given how weakened he was, the affluent streets of Westminster were too well lit to risk a direct route. His choice was made.

_Rooftops it was then._

The first sniper went down easily enough. Jacob’s hidden blade sliced cleanly and efficiently through the Blighter’s windpipe like a warm knife through butter, a textbook move executed to perfection. The second sniper was far from it. Jacob moved in silently to strike, but at the very moment he swung his arm to deliver his blade, his weapon belt yanked upwards with the movement and dug sharply into his injured side. Pain erupted in Jacob's chest and he buckled forward, clutching his ribcage as he cried out in agony and completely blew his cover.

The unsuspecting guard immediately spun around, surprised expression quickly descending to vicious as he lurched for Jacob. Too close to shoot, the guard lashed out, and his arms flew into the air and came down with force, clipping Jacob on the side of the head with his rifle.

Jacob’s head snapped back and the world went double. He swung out blindly to counter, but his elbow came up short and the heel of his hand struck the Blighter’s shoulder instead, sending the guard barrelling back towards the edge and almost into the path of a patrolling Templar carriage on the street below. _Almost_. Jacob hurtled after him, snatched him back by the coat tails and finished the job properly—albeit more messily than he’d have liked.

And messy was how it stayed. The third sniper ripped Jacob's shirt to shreds in the struggle, the forth planted a dying blow to his chin with such unexpected force that it split Jacob’s lip clean open, leaving his coat stained with so much red that he couldn’t tell where his enemy's blood ended and his own began.

But by the time the fifth and final sniper lay dead at Jacob’s feet, the pain was unbearable. All-consuming. It robbed the strength from his muscles—leaving his grip on the slippery rooftiles far weaker than it ought to have been. But it was breathing that hurt the most. Still braced with the bandages that Roth had secured around him hours earlier, each breath now served as a cruel reminder of what had gone before, as Jacob heaved his broken body, brick by brick, towards the dim light casting out from the fifth-floor window.

His final destination. Crawford Starrick’s office.

 _“Physical pain is just an illusion, Jacob.”_ His father had once said, void of sympathy when Jacob went to him, injured and crestfallen after one of his many failed attempts to impress him as a boy. “ _Merely a sensation that, as an Assassin, you must train your mind to shut out.”_

And so that’s what he did. It was all he could do. Battered and beaten, bloodied and bruised, Jacob bared his teeth and pushed through the pain—just like his father had taught him. There was no other option, he had to keep moving. Because if he didn’t, then the suffocating weight of what had happened at the Alhambra might just succeed in drowning him.

That, and the unwelcome realisation that settled heavy in his chest— _he should’ve done this weeks ago._

Because it was never supposed to end like _this._

And now he had to fix the mess that he’d made. He had to kill Crawford Starrick. _Tonight._

And then he could be at peace. Because Starrick must die. If he didn’t, then what would it all have been for?

 

_“And most importantly, Jacob, don’t ever allow personal feelings to compromise the mission.”_

\-------------------------------- ++++ --------------------------------

 

_~ Two Hours Earlier ~_

 

It all happened in slow motion.

_“LEWIS?!”_

The sound of Roth yelling jolted Jacob awake.

The first thing that hit him was the smell—the familiar scent of Roth’s shaving soap on the pillows, and the stale sting of gunpowder that drifted over from their clothes, bringing with it the vague recollection of what had happened between them hours earlier.

But then the second thing hit him—rushing into Jacob's awareness faster than he could process it. _A gun._ The trembling barrel of a revolver hovering above him, swaying erratically between his eyes.

Jacob jerked backwards, and the shock hit him at the same time as the headboard did. The bed lurched with him but the gun stayed put, quivering with uncertainty at his forehead. Jacob’s blood started rushing—thoughts crowding in on him all at once. Fear flooded his arms, his chest, suffocating what little energy he had left to move.

He was trapped. The gun was point blank. There was no way he’d escape it. Nothing he could do.

After everything he’d been through, everything he’d done, he was going to die like this, here in Roth’s bed, naked, injured, and unarmed—and with no way to explain it to Evie. And the shame of that thought sunk with him as he squeezed his eyes shut and gripped down on the bed sheets, twisting them between his fingers as he braced against the mattress and waited for the impact.

_At least it would be over quickly._

_At least it would be over._

_At least—_

Nothing happened.

Jacob's eyes flicked back open, and through the low light from the window he saw the gunman’s face. Fucking _Lewis,_ standing beside him at the bed, face pale and drawn, mouth pulled tight. Jacob's breath froze, and his eyes locked on Lewis, waiting—but Lewis just stared back at him with dead eyes, body rigid, faltering as he took a step backwards. Something wasn’t right. Lewis looked odd—dazed and unsteady on his feet. He was just stood there, holding the gun and swaying, expression vacant and empty, no more able to shoot than he was to stand upright.

Jacob saw his chance and took it. The room was spinning, adrenaline driving his heart so hard that his head hurt, but he shifted a little, just an inch or so along the bed and away from the edge.

He could see Roth at the doorway, arms extended with his own gun trained on Lewis, nodding at him to keep going. Slowly, Jacob slid further, and with the movement, Lewis seemed to shrink back. The stiffness in his shoulders dropped and he lowered the gun, his arm hung limp and lifeless at his side.

“ _Lewis…”_ Roth spoke softer this time. Slowly, he also lowered his gun and took a small step towards his assistant, but Lewis immediately jerked back and shook his head. There was something in Lewis’s other hand—an envelope—and he was trying to say something to Roth, an awful gurgling in his throat that Jacob couldn’t make out. His eyes were wide and afraid, and red trickled from the corners of his mouth when he tried to speak again.

 “Sta—Sta—“

“ _Starrick?”_ Roth finished for him. Lewis nodded once, and for the briefest of moments, he looked relieved—like a weight had been lifted from him. But then he was swaying again, stumbling on the spot. Then with a final choked breath, Lewis dropped to his knees and slumped forwards, face first onto the mattress as his gun slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a thud, and the trigger fired an ear-splitting shot under the bed as it bounced.

 And there, set deep between Lewis’s blood soaked shoulders, was a single Templar dagger, buried to the hilt.

  

~~~~~

_Lewis_

_~ Half an Hour Before ~_

 

 _“Stabbed in the back.”_ The voice behind Lewis taunted. _“A fitting end for filthy little traitors like you.”_ The Templar leaned closer, snarling hot against Lewis's ear as he drove the dagger deeper and twisted it to the side, puncturing Lewis’s lung. _“Crawford Starrick sends his regards.”_ He finished with a sneer, laughing manically as he stepped back and stuffed a small cream envelope into Lewis's breast pocket.

Lewis fell against the side wall of the theatre, gasping for a breath that wouldn’t quite come. He held out his hand in a last bid for mercy, but the Templar came at him again and ruthlessly kicked Lewis’s legs out from beneath him, leaving him for dead on the cold, damp steps of the Alhambra.

His fate sealed for refusing Starrick’s offer and remaining loyal to Maxwell Roth.

A final warning delivered to his boss. Cruel and unfair.

Lewis had never asked for any of this.

From the doorstep of the grandest theatre in London, Lewis hauled himself along the pitch-black hallway, a trail of blood signing his final footsteps along the floorboards of his well-trodden route. Vision narrowing, static filling his ears, Lewis clung on to everything and anything he could to make it across the stage and up to Roth’s first floor bedroom. Because he had to warn Maxwell. To tell him that Starrick knew everything, that it was over. To tell him to leave, _now,_ and to get as far away from London as he possibly could. His final act of loyalty before he surrendered to the darkness that clawed at his heels.

And when Lewis stood over Jacob, having discovered him sleeping soundly in Roth’s bed, it would’ve been the easiest thing in the world to shoot the assassin dead. After all, this was Jacob’s fault. If Jacob hadn’t arrived on the scene and ruined everything, none of this would’ve happened. And now it was too late. Lewis was going to die, and if he couldn’t have Roth, then neither could Jacob.

He took aim, breath growing weaker by the second, hand shaking violently as he hovered his finger over the trigger of his gun—a gun still yet to fire its maiden shot.

And then he closed his eyes tight, clenched his teeth, held his breath and—

He couldn’t do it.

He wasn't like them, he wasn’t a killer. This wasn't what he’d signed up for.

All he’d ever wanted was to belong.

 

~~~~~

 

Roth had tried to save him. He moved quickly and removed the dagger, then lowered Lewis to the floor and onto his side, using his hands and the bedsheets to try and stem the bleeding. But it wasn’t working. There was so much blood. Too much blood. It was everywhere. And it wouldn’t stop coming. The gash was too deep, the injury too devastating. It was hopeless.

Roth roared and thumped the floor in frustration, and all Jacob could do was watch, helpless, his own broken body still numb with shock, and his mind a jumbled mess of questions with no answers.

Nothing could be done. Lewis slipped unconscious and died moments later, still clutching the envelope he’d retrieved from his breast pocket and weakly pressed against Roth’s palm.

A note from Starrick, similar to Roth’s own.

A letter of warning, with the promise of death—and Crawford Starrick always kept his promises.

 

~~~~~

 

Roth flew into a fit of rage. They dressed quickly, and Jacob followed him as he marched through the theatre and out onto the stage, ranting and raving, _Starrick_ this and _Starrick_ that, tearing down posters, props and scenery as he went. He was livid, his eyes burnt under the strain of it. But once he reached centre stage—the very spot where he and Jacob first met, all those weeks before, he seemed to calm and sober. And then he turned to Jacob and shrugged, head shaking, brows drawn together, and an unnerving look of resignation in his eyes.

He'd given up.

“This is it, my dear. This is where it ends. The final curtain.” His voice was low, almost a whisper. He offered Jacob a weak, but genuine smile, void of his usual spark, then he turned toward the empty auditorium and took a slow, lingering bow. “But darling, what a show it was. The stuff of _legends!_ ”

"Where it _ends?_ " Jacob moved in closer, confused, trying to understand. "What are you talking about?” He hissed, unsettled when Roth didn’t respond. Didn't even turn.

Nothing.

“ _Max—“_ His name caught in Jacob's throat. He gripped Roth’s wrist and tried to pull him round to face him, but Roth yanked his arm free and pulled away.

“Jacob, _don’t—“_

Jacob’s stomach dropped. He tried again, needy hands grasping out towards him, but Roth was too quick—the boxer in him showing as he ducked before Jacob could make contact. Jacob tried to move with him, but Roth’s face twisted in anger, and he snarled as he gripped Jacob by the waist and shoved him away.

 _“GO,_ Jacob. Leave this theatre. _NOW!”_

Jacob stumbled back and froze, mouth open in disbelief. His outstretched arms dropped like lead at his sides.

Roth lowered his head, unable to look, but Jacob continued to glare back at him—throat thick with grief, tears burning in the corners of his eyes. Frowning at the man who, up until that moment, had practically worshiped the ground he walked on. The man who made everything seem possible. The man who’d saved his life only hours earlier.

The man who now stood before him, cold, distant and detached.

And Jacob could barely stand it.

And now it was his voice that filled the theatre, angry and exposed.

_“Why are you doing this?!”_

“It’s _over,_ Jacob. He’s won, can’t you see? Starrick knows everything. Open your eyes, darling.” Roth flicked his wrists to the side, dismissive, gesturing out towards the empty theatre—still laid out with half-wrecked props and scenery, waiting for the show that would never go ahead. “He’s taken my men, my theatre, _Lewis_ —seen to it I’m finished.” He paused, brows dipped as he reached out longingly for Jacob’s hand but didn’t quite connect. “You’re all I have left, darling. And now he knows what we’ve done. He knows I betrayed him and I have to face the music. This is it for me. Don’t tell me you’re surprised.”

“No _—_ there’s still time—“ Jacob’s voice broke. It was too much to take in. Suddenly too real, suddenly too intense. Because this was about so much more than just taking down Starrick. They both knew time was running out, but to just _give up—_ and without a fight? It couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not yet.

Jacob gripped hold of him again. “Look, I can stop him. _We_ can stop him.” But Roth wasn’t listening, wouldn’t even look. It was as if a thick glass wall had risen between them, and the ground on Jacob’s side was sinking away to oblivion beneath his feet—taking everything he thought was true with it.

“Maxwell, _please.”_ Jacob’s fingers twisted in Roth’s jacket and he shook him gently, reeling at the desperation he heard in his own voice. " _Look_ at me." 

Roth stayed still for a moment, then slowly lifted his head and their eyes finally met. And for a few short moments, it was like nothing had happened—like nothing had changed between them. Just two ill-fated lovers, caught in the perfect storm of their dangerous liaison.

Roth’s face softened, and the ghost of a weary smile tugged at the corner of his lips, lingering there as he gazed back into Jacob’s eyes. His hand came up and slid across Jacob's cheek, fingers stroking along the outline of his brow, the dip of his temple, the curve of his jaw. Committing it all to memory. Just one last touch. Just one last time. Because he never meant for it to end like this. Perhaps he never meant for it to end at all—but he always knew it would. And now Starrick was coming for him, but there was no way he’d let him take Jacob too. He wouldn’t give the bastard the satisfaction.

“ _Darling_ _,_ listen to me, you have to leave. Now. While you still have the chance.”

Jacob grimaced and jerked him closer. “ _Come with me then.”_ He slid his hand over Roth’s on his cheek and weaved their fingers together, leaning in to the familiar warmth of Roth’s palm against his skin. Only this time it stung—burnt like fire and knifed at his heart in time with his aching pulse. He couldn’t breathe from it, didn’t even want to move in case the moment faded into a dream.

Because that’s what it felt like—a bad dream. An awful, gut wrenching nightmare that he’d wake from at any moment, back in Roth’s bed before any of this happened. Writhing in ecstasy while Roth had held him close and slowly fucked the pain away. Fucked him until he felt whole again. Until every part of Roth had filled every part of Jacob, and every roll of Roth's hips had brought Jacob closer to drowning. Until the world had shifted so far away that nothing else remained—just him and Maxwell, locked together in a frenzy of heat, and sweat, and yearning and obsession. Finally succumbing to Roth’s hypnotic rhythm, chanting his name like some unholy rhyme.

Both of them shielded from the magnitude of what they’d done for just a few more hours.

But it wasn’t a dream. This was real and this was happening, whether Jacob liked it or not. Roth broke the spell and his fingers trailed away. He stepped back, and his hand went to his pocket and retrieved the envelope Starrick had sent to him earlier that evening. He took the necklace from inside and held it at arm’s length, letting the pendant sway gently in the space between them.

Roth glanced down at it and smiled. A pendant made from a shilling, how ironic that seemed now. ' _Two sides of the same coin'._ Him and Jacob. Roth had always said as much. But that was the funny thing about coins—if you spun one fast enough, the two sides became one.

“It was always going to be a gamble, darling. Heads we won, tails we died. Only there’s no sense in us both dying.”

It took a moment for Jacob to realise what he was looking at. He glanced at the necklace, then at the wax seal on the envelope. His mouth fell open.

“My necklace _—_ _Starrick_ had it!? How the hell—“

“You still can’t see it? What happened back there?” Roth gestured towards the backstage stairs, face hardening again. “He got to Lewis, Jacob. _Lewis—_ of all people. I dare say the last loyal man in London.” He paused, considering his words, then he glanced back at Jacob, eyes sincere and unflinching. “He wouldn’t have pulled that trigger, darling. Lewis wouldn’t harm a fly, let alone kill a man. Starrick did this. All of it. He sent your necklace to me tonight as a final warning. My time’s up, but that doesn’t mean _yours_ has to be.”

“So that’s _it_?” Jacob didn’t recognise his own voice anymore. “After everything we’ve been through. After everything we’ve achieved together?” He glared at Roth and swiped an angry tear from his cheek. “You’re giving up? Just like that? I thought—“

Jacob’s next word was gone, swallowed whole by an explosion from outside that rocked the entire theatre, shaking the walls and chandeliers that hung from the ceiling above them. The surrounding streets erupted with the sound of horses, and shouting, and gunfire. A thud came at the front entrance, then again at the back door behind them. A third clattered at the side entrance.

_Templars._

They were blocking the exits.

Jacob’s hand flew to his canesword and hovered, the other poised over his gun, fingers ready. His eyes darted across the theatre then back at Roth in despair, looking for direction, for a reaction, for _anything._  But Roth just stood there, stock still and ignoring it, eyes still burning into Jacob’s with such raw intensity that it made Jacob’s stomach roll.

“Oh, come now, Jacob.” He cried over the din, angry and passionate. "We both knew this could happen. We knew what we were getting ourselves into. We played a game with Starrick and lost. A game of chance. But that’s the thing about chances, we only regret the ones we didn’t take. I took a chance on you, my darling, for which I have no regrets, even if I have to die for it.”

It was too much. And Jacob didn’t want to hear it. “But what about _London?_ About _freedom_?” He yelled back and marched forward, snatching hold of Roth again. Roth’s hands flew up to stop him and they gripped each other’s arms, struggling against their matched strength like they had so many times before.

"What about  _us_?” The words stumbled on Jacob’s lips and he let go.

Glass shattered above them and something came hurtling through a second-floor window and rolled to a stop in the carpeted seating area to the front of the stage. Roth’s head whipped round to look, then straight back at Jacob, and for the first time, Jacob saw his own desperation mirrored back to him in Roth’s eyes. Another window smashed on the opposite side of the theatre and a brick flew past them both and landed on stage, narrowly missing Jacob’s head.

Something in Roth snapped. And in one sudden movement, his hands clamped around Jacob’s waist and he dragged him across the stage and into the wings, holding him there in the small shadowed space against the wall. He hadn’t meant to be so rough, and Roth's heart stopped when Jacob cried out in pain, grimacing when Roth twisted him too sharply, and his fingers dug deep into Jacob's wounded side.

" _Fuck—Jacob_ —" Roth's face dropped. He quickly slid his hand inside Jacob’s coat and cupped his ribcage, stroking his assassin’s injury gently with his thumb, kicking himself for not being more careful.

“ _Darling.”_

And kicking himself for letting this happen. 

A heaviness pooled in his stomach, and he sighed...

Kicking himself for getting so attached.

Roth let his head fall on Jacob’s shoulder and he slumped against him, defeated. He wound his arms around his assassin, one hand twisted in the back of Jacob’s shirt, the other slid into Jacob's hair and held on tight. Because it wasn’t fair. If only they’d had more time. There was so much he could have shown him, so much they could have done together. Him and Jacob Frye. _The_ _bravest man in London._ The love of his wretched life. The only person he'd ever cared about, the only person to ever care about him. _It wasn’t fucking fair._

Jacob’s arms closed around him and pressed Roth closer, and they stayed like that for several moments, holding each other in the darkest corner of the theatre. Hearts ripped open, chests rising and falling in grief stricken unison—the dull rumble of Starrick’s army on the street and the rawness of their breathing the only sounds that filled the empty music hall.

It felt like seconds. It felt like a lifetime.

Until Roth’s voice eventually broke the silence. His nose nuzzled gently in Jacob’s hair as he spoke, low and soft against his ear. “We’re outnumbered and you’re injured, darling.” His hand brushed across Jacob’s bruising chest again, tracing the bandages he’d tied there earlier through his shirt. “It’s too dangerous, we’d never make it out together. Can’t you hear that? He’s got the Alhambra surrounded.”

“I can take them. All of them.” Jacob murmured back, letting his lips brush against the rough skin on Roth’s neck, breathing in the familiar scent of him, deep into his lungs.

“And he’ll only send more. This is personal, Jacob. He wants his revenge, I know how this works, darling. Those men out there aren’t here to kill me, they’re here to keep me from leaving. Starrick will come for me himself.”

“Then I’ll kill him before he has the chance.” Jacob pulled back sharp and cupped Roth’s head in his hands. “I’ll do it now.”

Roth didn't say anything for a moment, letting the words settle in his mind, searching Jacob's eyes for something he now realised he'd had all along. His hands slid over Jacob's and he brought them to his lips, kissing each palm lightly in turn, then he let go and arched backwards, and hooked down the gantry ladder that hung above them.

“Go to the roof. Go back to your sister and finish what we started. Take him down together, you’ve a better chance with her and your Rooks. _You_ don’t die tonight, Jacob.”

“I’m not leaving you here.”

“And I’m not leaving this theatre. I’m not a coward, Jacob, I’m not living a life in the shadows, always looking over my shoulder. That’s not freedom, darling.” Roth’s hand went to his pocket, and when it returned he was holding Jacob's necklace. Tears pricked in Jacob's eyes as Roth's fingers gently slid across his skin and tied the worn cord back into position around his neck. “Go now, before the sun comes up. Buy yourself some time and get prepared. Do it, Jacob. It's the only chance you'll have."

Jacob went to say something, went to protest, almost went to say ‘ _I love you’,_ but the words wouldn’t come. He glanced over Roth’s shoulder towards the noise coming from outside, then back at Roth, heart breaking.

And he knew what he had to do.

And Roth knew it too.

Because if Starrick lived by morning, then one of them would not.

Roth stepped back and into the soft glow of the stage lighting. He held out his hand and Jacob took it without hesitation, letting Roth pull him forwards and out of the shadows. The sound of the Templars still thundered on outside as Roth’s other hand slid around to the small of Jacob’s back and pressed him closer, as though they were dancing. A dance with no music, but the lyrics they knew. Even if neither of them could say the words.

And Roth was smiling when he turned them around until they were stood beneath the gantry ladder. And then he pressed a gentle kiss to Jacob’s forehead, and then his cheek, and when their lips finally connected and Roth’s kiss became more desperate, Jacob snatched him closer in turmoil and matched the intensity of it until the air drained from his lungs and all he could breathe was Roth. Burnt into him forever like a scar, deep beneath his skin.

Roth kissed him like it was their first time, and kissed him like it was their last. Rough and hard, then gentle and soft. Hurried and intense, then slow and regretful. It was a kiss that contained everything they’d ever been, and everything they might never get to be.

It was a kiss goodbye.

A declaration of love.

And then it was over and Roth stepped to the side and out of the way.

This was it, just one thing left to do.

Jacob pushed off the wall and didn’t look back as he turned towards the ladder and rolled it all the way down. And he still didn’t look back as his foot connected with the first rung, his eyes stinging when he felt the warmth of Roth’s hand leave his shoulder.

He didn’t need to look back.

Because this wasn’t the end. Not if he had anything to do with it.

And Jacob clung to that thought as it disappeared with him through the gantries of the theatre and out into the cruelness of the night. That, and the promise he made as the rooftops blurred behind him.

“I’ll come back for you. You have my word.”

_And his heart._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there you go! I finally updated. *Runs to bury head in pillow and cry heart out*
> 
> As you might have seen from the comments, this has been written since last summer, but a lot of rubbish happened in my life and I wanted to wait until I was settled before I posted...Chapter 11 will now be the very end!
> 
> A big, huge, thank you to everyone who left me comments, kudos and subs. I really lost my confidence for a while, so each and every one of them made me smile and brightened my day.
> 
> Finally, a big hug to Vyhnan, Tall_Skinny_Scottish, TheBubbliciousGenius and everyone who's kind words kept me going without them even knowing it. THANK YOU! X
> 
> As always, if you'd like to leave me feedback, it's very much appreciated. I’m still a newbie it helps me improve. :)


	11. Sky Above Me, Earth Below Me, Fire Within Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After leaving Roth at the Alhambra, Jacob’s world shrinks down to one objective only. And nothing else matters until it was done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, I actually updated! *Hangs head in shame* I’m really sorry it took so long, (2017 hasn’t exactly gone to plan for me), but this little fic is almost finished now.
> 
> What should have been the final chapter has ended up being almost 14,000 words long, so I thought it would be best to split it into smaller sections…starting with this one. I hope to post the final two chapters in the coming days.
> 
> I hope you like it - there's more to come. Thanks so much for reading!

** Chapter 11 – Sky Above Me, Earth Below Me, Fire Within Me **

**  
**

 

“ _When the world is full of nasty things, we must tear those things apart.”_

~~~~~~~~~

 

The smell of sun-burnt dust and stale cigar smoke clung to the thick velvet drapes as they scratched rough against Jacob’s cheek.

Given the resistance he’d just faced on the rooftops, breaking in to Starrick’s headquarters had been surprisingly straightforward. A simple tease of his hidden blade to the corner of the aging window frame had been enough to unseat the latch, allowing for a clean, and more importantly, _discreet,_ entrance. The kind his father would have been proud of—as ironic as that seemed right now.

Because in that very moment, as Jacob stood hidden in the cold, shadowed edges of the Grand Master’s office, his back pressed tight against the wall behind the curtains, the ghost of Ethan Frye haunted him more than ever.

But not even his father could have prepared him for how it would feel.

Or that his love for another man would be the reason that Jacob was stood there.

He couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t even remember how long he’d waited for Starrick to return. Nothing felt real anymore, and hadn’t since he’d left Roth at the Alhambra. He just stood there, watching Starrick as he settled at his desk—stomach churning, revulsion burning in the back of his throat, bitter when he tried to swallow it down.

Never before had he felt so much hate filling his senses at once. Never felt so desperate. Never needed something as much as he needed Starrick to die.

And nothing else mattered now until it was done.

And it _would_ be done, there was no question of that.

Jacob inhaled slowly through his nose to steady his breath, then slid his hand through the gap in the curtains and parted them, just slightly, but enough to make a final scan of his surroundings. Starrick was sat in the centre of the room, his back to the window, head dipped while he worked at his desk. A low lamplight gently flickered beside him as he wrote—unguarded, unaware, and as far as Jacob could tell, _unarmed_.

The conditions couldn’t be more perfect. There was nothing to stop him, impossible to fail.

Jacob’s fists tightened at his sides, his eyes honing in.

Five metres, that’s all that stood between them—between him and the man who had ruined everything.

Jacob slid through the curtains and made it four and a half.

And then three.

His next step drew the walls in closer. His next move pushed the world farther away. All that existed now was Starrick—the scratch of his pen on paper, and the soft tick of the mantel clock, deafening in the silence that hung heavy around them.

Two metres.

One.

It was almost going to be too easy.

And Jacob cursed himself for not doing it sooner.

A final soundless step closed the gap between them, and Jacob lifted his bruising hand to hover at the nape of Starrick’s neck. The movement hurt, but almost everything did now—and what didn’t hurt either ached, or stung, or throbbed. But it didn’t matter. His body was broken for sure, but despite everything, he’d made it this far. And whatever lay ahead, whatever the outcome, at least he was going to put things right.

And with that thought, Jacob’s mind suddenly flooded with visions of Evie—wishing she were there, standing beside him at the very moment Starrick died. Witnessing the one thing— _the only thing_ —that they agreed on as it happened. That she might finally feel proud of him. But the train had been empty when Jacob passed through from the Alhambra for supplies. And maybe that was for the best. Because despite Roth warning Jacob not to come to Starrick alone, he knew she’d never want to see him again now. Not like this, not after everything he’d done.

And certainly not if she knew the secrets he now knew about himself.

He’d compromised the mission. This was his mess, and his alone to fix.

Time to do what he did best. And then he could get back to Roth.

Jacob drew in a silent breath and held it—

And then he pounced.

The heel of Jacob’s gauntlet hand slammed hard against the back of Starrick’s neck, his fingers curling tight around the Grand Master’s throat. With equal force, Jacob’s right hand clamped around Starrick’s shoulder and dug down sharp, pinning him in place against his chair.

A choked gasp escaped Starrick’s lips and he stiffened. The pen dropped from his hand and clattered across the desk. Ink splashes marked his papers.

Jacob’s heart was pounding, throbbing in his neck against the collar of his shirt. He leant in close to Starrick’s ear, teeth bared. “Good evening, Mr Starrick—or should that be _goodbye_?”

Starrick cleared his throat, hesitating for just the briefest of moments before speaking. Jacob held steady and waited. Tension crackled between them in the pause.

“Ah—Jacob Frye, I presume. I’ve heard so much about you. How nice to meet you at last.” The grip Jacob had on him hurt, the evidence showed in the strain of Starrick’s voice. With a swell of satisfaction, Jacob squeezed harder.

“Oh, I assure you, Mr Starrick, the pleasure is all mine, and if you even think about calling for help—”

Starrick raised a hand to motion his compliance.

“That won’t be necessary. Indeed—I believe I should be congratulating you, Mr Frye.”

Jacob scoffed. “Congratulating? You’re hardly in a position to—”

“You’ve done well to get this far. After everything you’ve done tonight, here you are—forcing your way into my office, past my guards, and without detection. How could I not be impressed? Your persistence is admirable and I admire your pluck—your steely determination. Few possess such qualities these days.”

Jacob swallowed hard, his mind suddenly blank. Whatever Starrick was trying to do was working—the unexpected compliment threw him, and Jacob's protest came out hoarse. “I don’t need your praise.”

“Not _mine_ , perhaps, but surely you realise that your actions have been misguided?”

“I don’t think so, Starrick—”

“No? I’ve watched the blatant disregard you displayed as you wrought destruction on this great city. The lengths you went to. The damage you did and the lives you almost ruined.” Starrick’s voice was growing stronger. It buzzed against the hand Jacob had wrapped around his throat. “And for what, hmm? Approval? Favours and rewards from a man who should know better than to cross me?”

“ _No_ —“ Jacob tightened his grip. He tried to swallow again, but this time his throat ran dry. “That’s not it.” He rasped, cringing as the words raked across his mind: _favours and rewards._ “You’re wrong.”

“Am I?” Starrick seemed undeterred, and though he was facing forward, his voice sang with the taint of a smile when he spoke again. “Are you absolutely certain about that? You’re a man of many talents, Jacob. What a shame that you choose to waste them in such reckless, and shall we say, unsavoury ways.”

Starrick’s shoulders shook with laughter, and Jacob’s stomach pitched. The air in the room suddenly felt too close.

_Starrick knew everything. Everything._

Images of Roth’s hands all over him, kissing him in the hallway, in the carriage, in his bed at the Alhambra and everything they’d done there—all of it crashed across Jacob’s mind at once. And just for a moment, he was fifteen years old and back in Crawley—body thrumming with guilt, and his head dipped to the ground to avoid the disappointed gaze of his father.

_But Crawford Starrick wasn’t his fucking father._

He wasn’t ashamed of how he felt anymore.

And the sound of Starrick’s laughter, grating and rattling loose in his chest snapped Jacob back into sharp focus.

“And what would you have me do instead?” He snarled, and jerked Starrick’s head back. “Use my talents to rule through fear? To take away freedom, is that it? To control the populace for my own gain?” Jacob’s eyes went to his gauntlet, perfectly positioned over the ropey vein protruding from the side of Starrick’s neck. His hands were shaking, but he’d still got this. He was still in control. Just one movement, that’s all it would take—one flick of his wrist and the blade would deploy and this nightmare would be over. “You’re deluded, Starrick. All Templars are.”

Starrick was still laughing. “Is that so? You Assassins underestimate the power I seek—the paradise I plan to create.” His tone was confident now, and arrogant, and mocking—and everything about it made Jacob’s skin crawl. For someone who had a razor-sharp blade a mere hair’s breadth from slicing into their throat, there wasn’t a remorseful bone in the man’s body—and it was only then that Jacob wondered why he’d let Starrick talk for so long.

“Balance must be restored, Jacob—order brought to your chaos. You’ve had your fun, played your foolish games, but it’s over now, I’m afraid. For you, for Mr Roth and—”

“Oh, I don’t know about _that._ ” Heat flared in Jacob’s chest at the mention of Maxwell, and he wrenched Starrick flat against the backrest of his chair. The carved wooden legs skidded back on the polished floor, and Jacob’s fingers twitched—wrist poised, blade ready, teeth clenched so impossibly tight that his jaw ached. _This was it—this was where it ended_. “Admit it, Starrick. You’ve lost.”

“Ha! My boy, I’ve only just begun!”

 

It happened so fast that Jacob didn’t have time to dodge.

 

Starrick’s hand jerked across his desk and something solid glinted in his palm. And in the next moment, his arm blurred as it swung out behind him and he slammed the object straight into Jacob’s side, catching Jacob’s already injured chest with a cruel and devastating precision.

Jacob heard himself scream—heard his cries bouncing off the walls as he stumbled back in agony, breath ripped from his lungs so quick he thought he might die from it. There was a sharp snick of steel, and Jacob watched on in horrified disbelief as his hidden blade triggered and jabbed out aimlessly into the space between them, completely missing its target.

He dropped to his knees and the pain engulfed him. Paralysed him. Splintered across his chest in wave after jagged wave. He couldn’t breathe from it. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t believe he’d just fucked up the perfect chance to end it all.

_Just like his father said he would._

There were noises, rapid movements above him, and Jacob grimaced as he strained to look. Starrick was already on his feet and calling for his guards. He had one hand on his shoulder, rubbing where Jacob had been holding him down. In his other hand, he still held the shiny object, gripped tight in his palm—a glass paperweight, Jacob could see it now.

The doors burst open, and two burly guards stormed into the office and surrounded Jacob on the floor. On a nod from Starrick, they each took hold of Jacob’s arms and dragged him upright until he was half dangling in their grip, and half sat on his heels at Starrick’s feet. In any other situation, Jacob would have taken them easily, but there was nothing he could do. The pain was too intense. And just when he thought his body couldn’t hurt any more, a short, sharp punch landed between his shoulders and another wave of it drowned him all over again.

Satisfied, Starrick grunted his approval to the guards, then turned his attention back to Jacob, and their eyes met for the very first time. He was taller in the flesh, or at least taller than the photograph back on the train did him justice for. But in an instant, Jacob saw that Starrick was everything that Roth had said he was. Pompous and rigid, emotionless and cold—dripping with an air of self-importance that all Templars seemed to emit, only it seemed more exaggerated with him.

Starrick bent over him, and Jacob’s stomach twisted, repulsed as he felt Starrick’s piercing gaze sweep over his body, scrutinising him with an expression of extreme distaste, like Jacob were some caged act at a circus freak show. His eyes moved in a slow drag across the blood stains on Jacob’s coat, trailed over the rips to his shirt and the fresh cuts to his mouth and forehead. Then his gaze halted, and lingered over the necklace Roth had tied back around Jacob’s neck.

A malicious smile bloomed on the Grand Master’s lips. Jacob matched it with the sharp teeth of a sneer.

“Oh dear, look at you now—the infamous, _Jacob Frye._ How far the mighty have fallen tonight. And yet, you still found time to be reunited with your ridiculous necklace, I see. How very touching. I trust that means my message has been received?”

Starrick’s eyebrows were raised, his tone cruel, and mocking, waiting for a response. And Jacob glared back at him, mouth hard set, determined not to give him one.

Starrick waited a moment longer, his eyes slowly narrowing, then he sighed, and placed the paperweight back on his desk.

“What did you hope to achieve—you and that loathsome rat? Nothing happens in this city without my knowledge. Did you not realise that I’d find out what you did?” Starrick motioned to the guard on Jacob’s right. The man obediently produced a dagger and thrust the cold, flat edge against Jacob’s throat, pressing down hard enough to constrict his breath. “Did you honestly think you could outwit someone like me?”

“Oh, you flatter yourself, you evil bastard.” Jacob wheezed against the blade.

Starrick laughed at that, a low, disturbing rumble in the back of his throat that made Jacob’s hackles rise.

“Such charming words. And how are you any better? You, who maims and murders in the name of _freedom_? You Assassins don't know the meaning of the word _. I_ am the saviour of this city. London would perish without me.”

“London belongs to its people. Not to you. Not to Templars.” Jacob’s voice was small, shrinking in his throat, suffocating beneath the weight of the guard’s blade. He tried to lean back, to relieve some pressure and give himself space to breathe. But the second guard noticed and immediately twisted Jacob’s arms further behind his back and pinned them there, shoving Jacob hard in the ribs as he jerked him back into position.

Jacob cried out, his vision pulsing as more pain flooded his chest. It was as if they _knew_ —knew he was injured and where to hurt him, and there was nothing he could do about it. Starrick nodded to the guard, and the guard repeated the action with force. And Jacob swallowed his whimper and closed his eyes, focusing on trying to breathe through his nose, willing himself not to panic.

_This wasn’t supposed to happen. He’d made a promise. It couldn’t end like this._

His arms tingled, and his hands were going numb, and Jacob twisted his wrists to flex them, trying to keep the blood flowing, trying to bring back sensation. But just as he did, something else suddenly caught his attention—something sharp that dug into the back of his coat. And with a small swell of hope, Jacob realised what it was.

His hidden blade—it was still deployed.

_If he could just find a way to get his arm free. Create enough movement. Get Starrick close enough._

Starrick had begun to pace, back and forth in front of his desk. He’d picked up the paperweight again, and was gazing down at the model of Big Ben encased in the glass, preoccupied, flexing his fingers on its surface.

“You can’t stop progress, Jacob. A city like this needs leadership. A steady hand at the helm to steer it through uncertain times. Blowing up my factories and sabotaging my supplies was futile. Weapons can only take you so far, Mr Frye. The shroud is all I seek, and once I have it in my possession, I will be invincible.”

“It will _never_ happen.” Jacob croaked, trying to buy more time, trying to keep Starrick talking. He carefully twisted his wrist again, minutely adjusting the blade’s position, preparing the best angle.

He just needed a chance. An opening. _If he could just provoke Starrick enough to—_

“You’re a madman! Fuck you, Starrick.”

Starrick’s smile suddenly sharpened. He stopped pacing, and spun to look Jacob dead in the eye.

“ _Ohh_ , no—on the contrary, my boy! I believe it is indeed _you,_ Jacob, who has been getting fucked.” He clicked his tongue against his teeth, disapproving. “Ahh yes, Maxwell Roth. Such strange bedfellows. But then you already knew that—and poor _Lewis_ knew that too, of course.” Starrick stooped closer, so close that the pungent stench of his breath filled Jacob’s nostrils. Immediately, Jacob’s stomach baulked, and he fought the urge to heave— _but it had worked._ Jacob had him. Right where he needed him. _Close enough to strike._

“You know, I should have killed Maxwell Roth when I had the chance, all those years ago. Once a traitor, always a traitor—isn’t that what they say?” Starrick leant closer still. His moustache scratched against Jacob’s cheek, his tone vicious as he whispered low against Jacob’s ear. “ _I wonder, Jacob—did he ever tell you of the night I gave him that scar?”_

That was it—that was all Jacob needed to push him over the edge. He snapped, and a surge of pure rage swept through him. Before Starrick had chance to pull back, Jacob roared and threw his head forward, smacking his forehead against Starrick’s as hard as he possibly could. There was a loud _crack_ as Starrick’s nose broke, and then Starrick was roaring too, stumbling as he fell back and into his desk. The paperweight dropped from his grip and his hands flew to his face and came away red. Blood poured from his nose and dripped down his shirt front, splattered on his desk and on the floor.

There was no plan, no time to think, only time to react. Caught by surprise, both guards shifted towards Starrick and their grip on Jacob loosened a little—only barely, but enough for Jacob to seize the opportunity and make his move. And with a sharp grunt of effort Jacob yanked his gauntlet arm free, swung the blade upwards, and slammed it straight into the chest of the guard on his right—the one that held the knife to his throat. Immediately, the guard dropped his blade and fell, dead before he even hit the floor.

Hope filled Jacob’s chest, and the room spun as he whirled on his knees to take out the second guard. Blade still deployed, he drove his arm forward, aiming as high as he could, given his low position. But he was too late. Starrick was already back on his feet, teeth bared as he launched himself at Jacob and kneed him in the chest, knocking him off balance.

Unable to stop the momentum, Jacob started to topple backwards, but Starrick dived after him and caught him by the neck. His blood-soaked fingers clamped around Jacob’s throat and squeezed, his thumbs pressing down so hard that Jacob’s vision dipped.

“ _SEIZE HIM!”_

The remaining guard scrambled back into position and yanked Jacob’s arms behind him again, crushing his boot down on the back of Jacob’s legs for good measure.

“You stupid, _STUPID_ boy! Don’t you realise what you’ve done?” Starrick was snarling, showering Jacob with droplets of spit and blood as it streamed from his nose and stained his teeth. **“** By coming here, you have played straight into my hands. Tonight, while you were wreaking havoc in _my_ city, your equally insufferable sister stole something from me. The key to the vault, and to what is rightfully mine.” Starrick pressed harder. He was trembling, physically shaking with rage. Strands of his tidy hair had flopped forward and stuck to his face, damp with sweat and blood. “And when she finds out that her dearest brother has been captured, where do you think she’ll come running?”

Jacob opened his mouth to answer, but Starrick squeezed and cut him off, grunting as he held his thumbs firm. Jacob tried to breathe, tried to fight back, but the pressure was too much. And every time Starrick tightened his grip, what little hope Jacob had of breaking free choked and died with it. He wasn’t going to make it. Not this time. There was no way he’d get out of this alive now.

He closed his eyes and saw the Alhambra, saw the familiar reds and the golds. Felt Roth’s arms curl around him, warm and comforting.

But then Starrick abruptly let go and stepped back, the crushing grip around his neck suddenly gone. Jacob gasped, gagging as he spluttered for air. His head lolled forward and he inhaled hard, wheezing as he sucked in a loud breath and choked on it.

Starrick laughed aloud as he watched him struggle, slowly dabbing the blood from his nose on his cuff.

“Oh, _Jacob_ , you’ve made this easy for me. This is all your doing, after all.”

“ _No—“_

“ _Yes! YES, my boy!”_ Starrick bent to collect his dropped paperweight. “Because here I am, left with something of an opportunity. To kill not one, nor two, but _three_ insignificant little birds with one stone. First you will die, and then your sister when she comes to save you. And once I have delivered your cold, dead body back to Maxwell Roth, and watched him agonise over what he has done, then I will take great pleasure in killing him too.”

“No— _no—”_ It was hopeless, but it was all Jacob could manage, all he had left.

Starrick ignored him, and slid a bloodied hand back around Jacob’s throat, his paperweight ready in the other.

“And then I will take back my key, go to the Palace, and finally retrieve the shroud. London will be mine at last. Rid of your chaos.” Starrick’s eyes were bulging now, wide and manic and bloodshot. He raised the paperweight in the air, poised to come down on Jacob’s head. “So, will you come quietly, or will I have to—”

The light in the room dipped and Starrick stopped short.

His eyes flicked sharp toward the window behind Jacob, and Jacob caught the Grand Master’s face pale in horror a split second before a gunshot fired from outside and the room exploded with the sound of shattering glass.

A rush of night air poured into the office, and in the next moment, Starrick’s grip on him released and Jacob was forced to the floor, crushed by the sudden dead weight of the guard as the henchman slumped heavy on top of him.  

Jacob blinked, confused, his head still thick from the strangulation, waiting for the pain of a bullet wound, convinced he’d been shot by a sniper. But the pain didn’t come. His heart was racing, and his ears still rang from the gunshot, but there was something else underneath it all—muffled sounds that moved around him, and then again in front. And then one sound became crystal clear—a voice, familiar and urgent.

“ _NOW JACOB! DO IT NOW!”_

_Evie._

Jacob’s vision swam as he rolled himself over and pushed the lifeless guard off him. The guard slid to the floor in a pool of blood, a single gunshot wound bleeding from the back of his skull.

_She came._

Jacob hauled himself to his feet, swaying as he spun around. And then his heart was bursting through his chest—because there was his sister, cane sword pulled across Starrick’s throat, pinning the flailing Grand Master down on his desk.

And time seemed to slow as Jacob watched his own arm rise at his side, wrist flicking as he retracted his blade back into position. And then it was plunging forward and driving straight into Crawford Starrick’s chest, and straight through the Grand Master’s heart.

An instant kill.

The perfect assassination.

Just like his father had taught him.

And then it was done.

Crawford Starrick was dead.

~~~~~~~~~

 

There were no questions from Evie. No arguments, no lectures. She simply wrapped her arms around Jacob and held him close. And the look in her pale, blue-green eyes said more than Jacob ever could have in that moment.

And once outside and back on the rooftops, when she and Henry turned to leave for the Palace to secure the shroud, and Jacob stepped in the opposite direction, she simply nodded and let him go.

“Do what you need to do. But be careful, brother.”

And if she knew where Jacob was going, she didn’t let on.

Because the night was far from over yet.

He had to get back to the Alhambra.

_And fast._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well there you go....but it's not over yet...
> 
> Once again, thank you so much for the support and for sticking around. You’re all amazing and your comments and messages really did (and do) keep me going xx
> 
> As always, if you'd like to leave me feedback, it's very much appreciated. I still consider myself a newbie so it helps me improve. :)


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